2006-07-30T12:44:00.000+01:00

2.The Soldier

As hate soared and all hope for peace departed, Israeli air strikes piled on more slaughter, the situation gained Palestine Liberation Organisation Chairman, Yasser Arafat, more empathy, certainly no advocate of peaceful protest like Martin Luther-King, as he lurked behind the scene, Arafat sponsored terrorism. His duplicity meant that as he held sway, pointless to negotiate with him, there would be no homeland for Palestinians. When all the journalists’ packed up and chased another story, no more the statesman, pursuing his practiced ways, Arafat dialled 17 on his landline and commanded his fedayeen forces to deliver more atrocities. When the cameras returned and filmed the mess, they witnessed only Israeli reprisals. Intent on more bloodshed, as Force 17 landed rubber dinghies on Tel Aviv beaches, I won eyeball testimony.
Israeli intelligence had unearthed a Force 17 base buried deep in southern Lebanon. As we planned another assault, a large house, it concealed a headquarters standing by a square in the centre of a town. That night as eight raiders lined up by a helicopter, we looked a motley crew, wearing traditional djellaba to hide our uniforms. The loose woollen robes cloaked lethal grenades and Uzi’s, while keffiyahs veiled anxious faces. As everyone scrambled aboard, once airborne, the machine bore north until reaching our drop zone just short of the Lebanese frontier. As we piled into the back of a battered truck, it ferried us over the border. Our driver Muslim, attached to the Hadruzim Reconnaissance, he knew the area well. A rough ride, we felt relieved when the truck reached our drop-off point. As everyone clambered out, the truck gone, we found ourselves in a desolate road. Meaning to spring a surprise and promptly dividing, we aimed to approach our objective from every direction.
Never alone, insidious fear crept and joined us. Always tricky in the gloom, though we had a good idea of the layout after checking aerial photos and detailed scale models during our briefing. We meant to strike before Force 17 tried to destroy their intelligence material. Moving like wraiths, we closed in and surrounded the target. Crouching low in shadows and losing the disguise as we gathered our bearings, per the pictures located by the square and distinct from the other houses two men gripped AK-47’s as they nonchalantly patrolled the roof of our objective. Killing silence and the gunmen, a rocket-propelled grenade punched a hole into the headquarters. As more rockets ripped into the house, taking the building in a rush and unleashing the deadly Uzi’s, we sprayed windows at close range, lobbing grenades to make sure.
Smashing a window as I broke into the base, no training for this – blood painted walls, their guts gorily distended before me, two dead gunmen lay in one corner, sickened, but fire fast breaking

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out and ransacking a nearby desk, I stuffed fistfuls of papers into pockets and pouches. As another blast smacked the building, throwing up dense clouds of dust mingling with thick black smoke belching from the inferno. Fierce heat from the blaze decided me to exit.
As I located the others, we found more secrets until time to set our explosives, electronic devices about the size of a cigarette packet, as we snapped them open it gave us just two minutes to scarper. Expecting a big bang, the base would go up along with piles of arms and explosives. We had found their stock cached in a store along with telltale dinghies. Job about done, it would only disrupt them, as I was about to learn, it didn’t stop the killing. As we fled, I dived, a massive thump it walloped the ground. As more bangs ensued, grateful as it swooped down upon us, all aboard and the helicopter headed to Israel. I had just ended six months enduring a ruthless course called consolidation. Now 1975, I operated in a unique foreign legion attached to the feared Golani Sayaret. They began life as a ragbag reconnaissance unit; years of fighting had matured them into élite commandos.
Now the veteran of several such missions, two years later in 1977 and sidelined with a painful wound to my arm. I had received it while rescuing hostages in the previous year. In March 1978, I joined Operation Litani, its theoretical objective to prevent more PLO assaults on Jewish settlements in northern Israel. However, three months later, the operation wound up another failure. As the burden of patrolling the north fell to the Golani, unrelenting conflicts broke out all the time. Posted to the frontier in 1980, I bore witness to even more agony. In the first week of April, dusk always heralded a keen sense of alertness. As we received it, the report said five terrorist gunmen held a nest of children hostage. The work of an Iraqi trained suicide squad, choosing a helpless target they had smashed into a kibbutz and seized the nursery. Armed with Uzi’s, a small patrol, we rushed into the gloom and leaping into growling jeeps, raced to a harrowing scene. As mums and dads clung onto each other, praying that we might save their children. Primarily, we needed to restore a semblance of calm and prevent maverick rescue bids that must end in tragedy.
Powerless to prevent him, the Chief of Staff a belligerent vet, he loathed terrorists and impatient to push on and mount a rescue bid, as emotion ran high, the warhorse aimed to resolve the crisis without parley. Hampered by the night sky, a dazzling flare lit our objective, a plain four-storey building. As I watched, a captain led the assault. In a rush, the Golani hit a wall of brutal machinegun fire. One dead, more soldiers wounded and the bid ended in abject failure. At dawn, we tried once more, armed with Uzi’s, grenades and now a decent plan, our adrenaline pumping, we crept slowly into place. The nursery stood on the ground floor and thanks to sneaky listening devices, we knew that only one gunman held the

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children. It left at least four men on the upper floors, as we blitzed them with a ferocious salvo, the gunmen fled, a frantic stampede, splintering doors, we smashed our way into the besieged nursery and as they spared them, falling upon crying children, soldiers doubled as human shields. His torso twitching, it sank to the floor and came to rest beside his smoking gun. As a crimson pool slowly formed about the gunman, strangely hypnotic, we watched as his life drained away. Feeling not hate and for sure no joy, no matter how many times that we had seen it before, I felt pity and asked why? In a far corner, a bloodstained blanket covered a tiny body.
“Kill them!” yelled the captain.
Abandoning stealth, we bolted from the nursery and rushing the stairs, our purpose to hunt four remaining gunmen holed up on the upper floors. Regaining our cool, more professional, creeping along a narrow passage, as we reached the first landing a beard poked out from behind a far wall and like all his buddies, sporting a red bandanna. As he levelled his weapon, bullets tore into his torso violently flinging him against a far wall. As we climbed to the second floor, an open door awaited directly ahead of us. One commando tossed a stun grenade inside. A dense wall of dust and masonry burst forth, Uzi’s blazing more commandoes charged the smoking mess taking out two more gunmen. On the top floor, the last gunman tried lobbing a grenade at me. In my defence and I released a burst from the Uzi. Ripping his body apart as blood and bits of flesh hideously sprayed the floor, unable to bottle it, the others finished him.
The butchery over in barely three minutes and as I gazed at crazy patterns riven by bullets in the plaster wall, no more a crèche, now a slaughterhouse, as soldiers doused dancing flames, I returned to the ground floor. Outside and a large crowd some praised God for saving their children, many more screamed revenge. Avoiding the baying mêlée, I found an oasis of solitude circled by flowers and slumping to earth, more soldiers soon joined me. Our inner-peace fragmented. A bloody thankless task and we cut tragic figures. Melting my heart, some shed silent tears, but others prayed for vengeance. At liberty to desert the carnage, Israel had given me life. Aged 24, I had stopped running and someone had to fight the terror. Soon the real butcher, Ariel Sharon, planned yet more.
In 1981, the IDF intelligence wing recruited me. I joined A’man, working with Unit 504, a smaller, military outfit, but not unlike the Mossad. Before then, now ten months beyond the nightmare at the nursery, terrible images of it preyed on the mind. Aware if caught, Israel must exact reprisals, the guilty had gone to ground. No hiding them, A’man had since found their HQ in Lebanon, a depot for arms, explosives and secrets, oh you bet we meant to pay it a visit. As volunteers crowded the room, we held a briefing. The same captain as before to lead our mission, we had to raze House-

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A, a code name for their HQ. Maps, scale models and detailed aerial photographs helped us to distinguish the target, standing in a village on the treacherous Nabatiyah Heights in Lebanon.
The captain had warned us that roughly, twenty terrorists guarded the house, splitting our deadly assault party into three heliborne squads, each one set to perform different tasks; he included me alongside him in Unit-1. Volunteers forming Unit-2 were to lurk in the backdrop and scare off any wannabe martyrs. Everyone else made up Unit-3, their task to wait by a road leading directly into the village ready to ambush any passing terrorists intending to join the conflict. As dusk quickly settled over Israel, it veiled from view our grease-painted faces. Tooled up and meaning to keep in touch, each one us carried a radio complete with microphone and earpiece. Resolved to make a serious impact, the captain hauled behind him a big canvas sack crammed full with explosives. One dozen to each, everyone swiftly scrambled aboard three waiting helicopters. A momentous flight, as we pooled memories of our foregoing fight, acutely aware that after tonight’s raid, surviving terrorists would seek to claim a hollow victory by spouting false propaganda and asserting that their since bombed base used to be an orphanage, a hospital, or some such in their often successful attempts to deceive the media. At least we knew the truth. As everyone fell silent, about to land, our drop zone was only some 5km outside the village.
Leaping from the aircraft we got to work on the ground. Unit-3 sped off to find their road; everyone else marched on the village. Hard to navigate burdened with heavy equipment, we found the going tough. As we stumbled over loose rocks and slipped in shale underfoot, no more cursing, we needed quiet as we closed in on the village. As Unit-2 fanned and did their thing, Unit-1 trailed a rough dirt track leading to our objective, now almost upon it and piercing the gloom, our night-vision sights made everything glow green. As I made out a cluster of hideous dwellings, the captain ordered us to deploy. Only metres away, I knelt behind a low wall and trained my sights on House-A, distinct from other buildings, three gunmen lurked by its shadowy doorway. Striking a relaxed façade, they each cradled an AK-47. While one gunman remained by the door, as snatches of Arabic drifted towards me, about to patrol the perimeter, his buddies divided. One gunman headed in my direction, his crunching footfalls ever louder and upon me, bursting my eardrum, the captain screamed
“Attack!”
As we opened fire, a fierce barrage soon ended it for the patrolling gunmen. As he bolted from his foxhole, nothing else for it, I had to sprint and join the captain. Letting go my friend the rifle and lending him a hand, we wrestled with his hefty sack of explosives. Hauling it together like a pair of mad bastards, it bumped behind

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us as we cut a trail. Gone on galloping adrenaline, we dragged our payload through smoke, missiles, and bullets. Hurling the sack, we yelled
“For the children!”
As we watched in satisfaction, the deadly bundle crashed through the entrance and down the throat of the base and suddenly mortal again, the captain joined me in a desperate race for life. Reaching cover as we retrieved our weapons, an RPG flew over our heads and detonated the explosives. As the base erupted, a whistling blast blew us off our feet. Its inhabitants panicking, they fled the burning HQ and broke into the house next door, whereupon the captain named it House-B. As everyone encircled the new target, I slipped behind a concrete building, poking my head out to take in the scene, hampering my view, as dense smoke belched from the bombsite, House-B lay directly in my line of fire. As the gunmen placed machineguns at the windows, we opened up. A merciless firefight erupted, showering me with nothing worse than concrete as rounds smacked into my flimsy shelter. While I could do no more than keep my head down, an RPG hit the first emplacement, concentrated salvoes knocked out the second. Our bombardment too much and as leaping flames engulfed the house, a fierce blaze quickly reduced the base to smouldering rubble.
A rich harvest, as we sifted blackened remains, under tons of debris, we found the basement intact. A treasure trove of secrets we uncovered long lists of arms dealers, one-time an accountant I knew that the bank statements would trace terrorist fund sources. We stuffed papers into pockets and empty pouches even down the legs of trousers. As local armed resistance appeared, engaging them, a brief skirmish and Unit-2 dealt with it. Snatching more material as time marched so did we. We returned to the landing zone in one piece and as Unit-3 rejoined us, everyone scrambled aboard our aircraft. A foolish notion, we hoped it put paid to our recurring nightmares.
Upon reporting for duty with Unit 504, they handed me a false legend supported by a fake passport. Issuing me with instructions, A’man had a little job for me. I was to play a shiksa and claim that I was a terrorist sympathiser. About to infiltrate the PLO and my undercover assignment began on the striking Greek Island of Kós. While the Mossad shadowed me, I faced a brief encounter with a Lebanese man. An affluent Muslim, an Oxford graduate, in reality a terrorist, my initial encounter with him must appear natural. Wearing tight denim shorts, a revealing T-shirt and a beautiful day, I sipped iced fruit juice at a café table. Directly opposite me sat the façade to a plush hôtel where my target leased a suite. Minutes later, he emerged to take his customary stroll along the beach. As our paths crossed, I let my bursting backpack slip from my shoulder. About to retrieve it from the sand, raising a hand, he

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recovered the bag for me. Flirting, he loved the ladies and led me to a beachside bar where we found a table shaded from the fiery sunshine. His hand upon my leg and ice rattling in his whisky, I sipped a soft drink. Handsome, only in his early thirties, as he whispered sexy nothings in my ear, his free hand cosily cupped my breasts. Halting him in his tracks, I quizzed
“Are you Palestinian?”
“Why do you ask that?” he queried, surprised.
“My Daddy’s a wealthy entrepreneur,” I told him “He expects me to follow in his footsteps. I have different plans – I want to fight with the Palestinians!”
“Perhaps I can help you” hooked, he urged me tell him more.
“Back home I’m an activist for what Daddy calls extremist political groups, I see myself as a revolutionary drawn to the Palestinian plight.” Pulling a long face, I moaned, “I’ve run out of money, I’ll have to go back to England to tap Daddy.”
Finished groping me, he produced a fat wallet and pressed a thick wad of US dollars in my palm. As he fell for my act, he told me that if I wished to pursue the Cause then I should pack my things. Hoping I enjoyed driving, he promised me a long journey. Two days more, as arranged, we met once again. Offering me more money, he told me that I had to drive to Germany. Under cover of nightfall, ferried by boat into Turkey, I met my next contact in Bodrum. Presenting me with the keys to a big Mercedes, an Arab gent, he pledged that the car held a full tank of fuel. Stowed in the boot were food, bedding, toiletries, more than enough to get me to Munich and setting out at once, I took the road north to Izmir. Sailing the Sea of Marmara by car ferry at Çanakkale, I headed for the junction at Edirne. A prolonged drive, it took me through the Balkans and into Bavaria.
Three days behind the wheel and at the end of my expedition, reaching Munich in good time, tired and unfamiliar with the city, I hailed a taxi. The cab conveyed me to the National Museum. Following my instructions, as I loitered by the foyer clutching a copy of The Times, waiting for another Arab gent. As he surfaced before me, denim-clad and Syrian, as expected, he told me that he needed to check my story. Fixing a second rendezvous at the same venue, next day, as it skidded to a halt in front of me, two Arab males occupied the mud caked Mercedes. As the bearded driver relentlessly revved the engine, his passenger, the man whom I had met earlier, invited me to join them in the car. As I climbed onto the rear seat, a great crash of gears and we jolted from the kerb. Nobody uttered a word during a tense journey. Ages later, as the driver stopped the car, huge soaring pine trees lined a deserted road. One man ordered me out. Joining me by the kerb, offering me a cold stare, he demanded

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“Get in the trunk!”
As they locked me inside the boot, the powerful stench of petrol seeping into the confined space, before long the car stopped again. A door slammed and soon in motion, but only briefly, the driver cut the engine and the boot lid flew open.
As I clambered gratefully out of the boot, feeling well drowsy, the petrol fumes had produced a vile migraine. I found myself within a cavernous warehouse. Pointing to a rickety wooden staircase, they ordered me to climb it. As the driver tailed close behind us, I mounted the creaking steps. Upon reaching a platform at the top, the driver threw open a door and ordering me to wait by it, he slipped through the gap and closed the door behind him. On cue, the other man swiftly produced an enormous automatic from his jacket pocket and as he pointed it at me, we remained like that until the driver returned.
As the driver urged me to follow him, still proudly flourishing his automatic, the second man trailed behind us as we traipsed along a narrow passage. At the far end of the corridor, as I watched him unlock a second door and flick on a flyblown light bulb dangling from twisted flex, the driver ordered me inside a squalid room and slammed the door behind me.
A key rattled in the stout lock. Begging for it, a battered old filing cabinet sat in one corner, yet resisting the urge to rummage, they might be secretly observing me. My head still aching, drained and thirsty, I rested on a wobbly kitchen chair by a grubby table. After few moments, the door swung back and an eccentric slithered into the room. His untrimmed beard said Islam, but it didn’t match his clothes. A manic gleam in his eye and sweeping across the floor he began
“I understand you want to help mutual friends in Palestine.”
Flared pants, garish flower print shirt and loud kipper tie made him a throwback to Seventies Man. Refusing to accept the unlikely costume as his regular street garb, I put down his odd guise as part of the game. As he seized the vacant chair, not much older than me, yet an old hand and Syrian, a sly smile, he suggested
“You’re very nervous, come, I’m Rashid, let’s talk.”
Dying for a drink and not much of a host, Rashid offered me only himself. As he ran his bejewelled fingers through his oiled black hair, his elaborate posing more womanly than mine, he insisted
“Tell me about yourself.”
My cue to deliver an Oscar winning performance, otherwise he would nominate my demise. As I recited my tale, angling to join his party, passionate, I wailed

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“I don’t need Workers Revolutionary Parties – I need a cause I can believe in!”
Rashid begged me to talk about Daddy, so I told him.
“Oh he’s a typical rich and reactionary Tory and expects me to be his clone.”
“Does he want you to control the business in the future?” quizzed Rashid.
“And exploit the people – oh yeah, he wants that.” I agreed.
“You’re rebelling against him?” he enquired, hopeful.
“I don’t want his money,” I told him, ”You can use it to help the Palestinians!”
As he leapt from his pew, begging me to take tea and moments later, he arrived with two plastic cups. More faithful to tradition, the brew strong and sickly sweet, reciprocating, I fed him loads more on Daddy’s business. Located in Manchester, an associate of the Mossad owned it. I always knew that my connections would win his faith and as Rashid produced his notebook, he told me that he would need to make some phone calls. Feeling certain this was not the Eastern promise I had yearned for, he pledged
“I’m sure you’ll get exciting instructions very soon.”
My armed escort led me back to the boot for another fume-filled ride. After we had travelled a safe distance from Rashid’s lair, my head still banging, as they released me, I returned to the back seat and snapped
“Where are we going?”
“To a safe house” thinking my tetchiness funny, I giggled too when they added, “You have a long flight tomorrow – you’re going to Syria.”
As I concealed my alarm, I had more than a migraine plaguing me now. Soon underway and as the Mercedes raced towards Munich, steering well shy of the suburbs, upon leaving the autobahn, we followed a leafy lane. Our drive ended just short of a village and as they showed me into their safe house, accepting a light supper and quenching my thirst, I spent the night there. My digs more than adequate, but quite unable to rest, as I thought about tomorrow, exhaustion thankfully engulfed me. In the morning, as arranged, as we sped to the airport where a Lear jet awaited to take me to Damascus, even this luxury failed to quell my fears, as I tried to forget, a destination, which for many spies, had ended with them dangling from a rope. Behind the scenes, as Rashid delved into my legend, we had landed. I grabbed my backpack as the plane taxied to a quiet corner of some airfield. Outside on the tarmac, a pair of fedayeen in battledress and keffiyahs met me. As they led me towards a less than deluxe Land Rover parked nearby, I jumped

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into what remained of the tatty seat by the driver. His equally bored-looking companion clambering into the back and soon snoring, he looked ever so peaceful snuggled up with their rifles. Spewing great clouds of oil and dust in our wake, the tired jalopy began an epic haul.
As we headed across the Syrian Desert for war torn Lebanon, glad of my trendy safari hat, the heat searing, we stopped a few times and poured litres of oil into the leaky motor, its piston slap awful and long overdue a rebore. As the driver braked again, finding his toolbox and out he got once more, this time he cleaned the plugs. Chugging along again, I wondered if we would ever make it to the PLO camp. Striving to remain optimistic, it offered me a chance to prove myself. As I took on the role of a PLO recruit, my remit was to keep my ears open for gossip. Well after all, I was about to sleep with women. Before then, as the Land Rover drew up before the dubious entrance to my new home, no welcome sight, coiled wire, fluttering flags and mean sentries brandishing AK-47s, it looked bloody awful.
As we halted before a barrier, the driver whispered a password and the bored guards waved us through. Braking directly opposite a security post, the driver rushed inside it. Horribly sticky and thirsty, as I hauled myself out of the jalopy to stretch my legs, not gone long and still checking his flies the driver reappeared and standing beside him a gnarled elderly man. Dressed in a raggedy keffiyah and grubby combat jacket like his compatriots, appearing doubtful of me, he pulled at the last threads of his straggly beard. From under his great hooked beak, a rheumy eye running over me, his lazy gesture suggested that I should trail him. Quite bare inside his post, save for a table, two chairs and as it hummed in a far corner, he opened up a small fridge. Pointing to a pitcher of orange juice, his gaunt leathery features split wide. A nice bloke and I would love to read about his tales. As he grabbed a clean tumbler, the old boy enquired
“You want?”
“Oh yes please!” I responded, eagerly.
As he poured, insisting and I took a seat. Taking the tumbler from him, as I sipped, ice cold, the juice tasted smashing so I thanked him and all at once looking pleased, he offered me more. As I relaxed, about to leave me alone, another grin and my new friend whispered
“I come back in minutes.”
True to his word, he returned carrying a slender portfolio under his arm. After a brief search, he found his specs in a drawer and settling himself behind the desk for a read. I had the chair facing him and looking, but unable to make sense of it, his paper upside down and printed in Arabic. Snail-like, he gave me loads of time

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to finish my drink. Finally breaking the silence, he asked me for my false British passport and any cash. I didn’t have much, just a few Dollars and Deutschmarks.
“I keep safe,” he promised, “You get back when needed.”
Painstaking, slowly counting the money and noting its value, he even asked me to sign a receipt, as I did so, requesting me to bare its mystery, he remembered my backpack still lying on the floor. My stuff practical and mainly T-shirts, jeans, trainers and hidden among my undies, a few packets of tampons, not that I really needed them, it did no harm to preserve appearances. As I began to repack my bag, a devious devil, trying hard to catch me out, he shot me more questions. My legend sorted him out, then taking another glance, his beak flit back to my passport. Frowning as he ogled a picture of my face, I cringed too, not my best photo. After he had compared my passport signature against my more recent autograph on the chit for the cash, he condemned the file and his spectacles to the back of a drawer. A big grin, he locked the desk dropping the key into his pocket. Allowing me to repack my things before rising from his desk, we traipsed outside where he duly led me across a hard-baked square towards a pair of drear barracks. Upon entering the nearest billet, he informed me
“This where women sleep, you meet later.”
“Where are they now?” I quizzed.
“Training” he rejoined.
Uneven ranks of frail wooden cabinets dwelt by mostly unmade beds, signs of life, many had personal items scattered about, on top, and around them. Diverse in their nature, the objects ranged from lipsticks to combat knives and all manner of guns. Granddad had lost his cool, still an Arab and Muslim, drawing the line he didn’t much like it in the ladies quarters and scuttling to the far end of the room, before leaving me, he directed
“This your bed, you want anything, ask women.”
According to A’man, I had nothing to worry about, we would see about that and in a hurry to sneak a peek and pacify my qualms; I headed for the loo and shower block, a nice surprise, unlike the remainder of the miserable billet, spotless. As schooldays echoed, a little row of individual cubicles should maintain me. No western pedestals here, a loo meant a hole in the ground. However, tiled floors and walls and running water made it functional. Taking a shower and the brown cascade took me back to the plumbing at Hadfield. My backpack stuffed in a locker, it was time to acquaint myself with my new mates. A flurry of small arms fire caught my notice and strolling outside, as I stared, in the backdrop, all of them dressed in martial fatigues and big boots like me, a gaggle of women tried out noisy weapons on a range. As I made towards them, dressed in tight green fatigues his belly wobbling as

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he targeted me, the swarthy firearms instructor, say 45, I didn’t ask him where he was born so he quizzed me and playing along I told him. A huge smarmy grin, teeth all over his face, he queried
“Inglesa, you shoot guns?”
“Only my father’s shotgun” I lied, he didn’t have one.
Beckoning me to shadow him, as we made for a mound of rubble, in real life, it camouflaged a concrete arsenal. Ignoring a hairy cross-legged sentry snoring by its entrance, as he weighed a rifle in his lap, I had to watch out for the sweaty Cuban’s arms. Inside the bunker bounded by the tools of war, even the odd Uzi and Galil and needing my host no closer, bigger than the weapon in his trousers, as I snatched the nearest assault rifle, he enthused
“Ahhhh widowmaker – you wanna’ shoot?”
Out of the bunker and back on the range, as he ended his demo, I could handle the AK-47 better than him. Blaming first time nerves and disguising my rapport with firearms, as I kept missing the target, my mentor didn’t mind, he promised me that my aim must improve with more practice.
As time passed, so did some of their faces, on average about forty females trained at the camp. Mostly Eastern European and many German they spoke good English. Stumbling upon an American, I even met an Australian, but few girlies, proud of their gladiatrix image, lesbians looked like men. Keeping out of their reach, pre-menstrual tension ruled and scary squabbles erupted nearly every minute. No teacher stopping me now, but best to keep to myself in this playground.
Staying alive meant living the part and as the PLO measured my commitment, another sacrifice, now I had to flog myself on their assault course. Keen to please, wanting them to think me an asset, increasing my worth to Israel it bettered the odds that the PLO would include me in their plans. Mind you, treading on eggshells, if ever they caught spying, Arafat’s Army would have a fun time with me.
Mindful, as I noted foe and their movements, not a big world, I bumped into folk in the camp pursuing jobs not unlike mine, to tell the truth it occurred a few times, its how I got my œstrogen and not only that, a tiny camera too. Fiddly at first, but it snapped stealthy pictures. Few breaks and no questions, in this camp, sly ruled. Other women kept their heads down for racy reasons. I missed nothing, sex nightly, no prude, but curious. As vibrators buzzed women screamed, keeping my counsel, in this place a bad look meant death, that’s not to say I wasn’t hassled. As women tried to seduce me, they would slink by my bed and sometimes jumping in adorned in only flimsy lingerie, but usually full frontal, no rules ran this playtime. Manly types strapped on huge dildos and laughing at their bawdiness, I took it in good part. As they

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grabbed my boobs, not to be outdone I would fool with theirs. Just bad girlie fun and as we played no harm done, mind you, I felt concerned when their fingers roamed between my legs. Nearly not getting away with it, I had to keep a grip on my pants. Losing no sleep, if undone, I would tell them the truth about my gender. It still failed to make me a spy. Anyway, the promise of Daddy’s fortune would save me from any real aggro. I reckoned that my mission symbolised my ultimate test, but the horny frolics never roused me and whenever the fun went too far, blaming my period, once asleep, I still dreamt of men.
As weeks rolled, much like trying to survive on a desert island, we couldn’t get the stuff that we really wanted and settled for much less. Everyone missed little luxuries, although we did have lovely scented soap. No Muslim prohibition for us, I never touched it, booze and fags arrived by the truckload. No shortage, fresh the food good, still no Butlins, not that I have been there and more reminiscent of Dad’s tales of Imperial India, as budding fighters, willing lackeys took care of our cooking and laundry.
A few months later and now my undertaking much harder to bear, as fundamentalists misquoted holy texts to bend the will of the mob, rousing yet more hate, relying on ancient arguments and citing bucketfuls of dollars pouring into Israel, they denounced American foreign policy as an unholy plot to smash Islam. It went down well and like the old Wild West, as rifles cracked, it was Jihad and every Muslim’s duty to fight the Great Satan. As they burned the flags, no prizes for guessing which ones got it, no show ended without the ritual. My roommates not hot about the issues, taking feminism to new extremes and loads more testosterone than me, most of them craved the brutal life of a mercenary. The PLO aimed to use them as airliner hijackers in an effort to draw more attention to their struggle.
The brutal arena eating into my soul, but not alone, an American in her twenties seemed unlike the rest. One evening, as she clung to my arm begging me to help her escape, appearing terrified, she claimed that she had dreamt of freedom for Palestine and peace with Israel. While I sure shared her ideals, no way did terrorism achieve them. As she admitted her stupidity, evens a set up and I needed more and asked her why she had chosen me as her ally. The girl wailed
“It isn’t anything like my dreams.”
“But why me, why do you think I can help you?” I demanded, wary.
“You’re not like the others, your eyes betray sadness,” she told me.
I would need to watch that, seriously, if she were a non-runner it would sure put the blinkers on me. In a deep dilemma, not into gambling as I weighed her up, a New Yorker, if they wanted they

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could put her on a flight to London. Not to give them ideas, but she would be fantastic for their propaganda. Less romantic and I feared that her purpose was to weed out moles such as me. If not, then on her own, any attempt to escape and she must fall short of any distance.
My heart said her act was true, but more prosaic as she stuck like glue, my head held that she must draw their notice. What am I doing here? I meant to break in and pinch her passport.
Next day, just one of many tools lying about the camp I found a jemmy, waiting until nightfall and sneaking out, nobody noticed me exit the billet. As I tiptoed to the padlocked property store, dallying in the darkness until persuaded all was safe I slipped the jemmy from my belt and soon the doorjamb splintered. An awful clatter as the padlock fell to the floor. Bloody hell, heart pounding, sure sentries must come running, but unlike the films, nothing happened.
Stealing inside and swiftly closing the door silently behind me, no window, feeling for a switch I got the light. Employing the jemmy once more, a pity to scratch it, I forced a mahogany cabinet and upon throwing back its doors, piles of passports confronted me. Examining each document in turn, a shiny bald eagle cried halt. Stuffing the trove under my shirt, my nerve restrained, no rush meant no mistake. I replaced all the remaining passports back inside the cabinet and diving into my pocket for a scrap of denim, the American had ripped it from a pair of her jeans. Snagging it on sharp splinters protruding from the broken cabinet, I grabbed the jemmy and off went the light.
Innocently ambling from the scene, not a real crime, I still needed to lose the evidence before anyone stopped and searched me. I found the girl by the firing range, as she gaped at her image in the passport, flinging her arms about my neck and thanking me all at once. Shucks, it was only a decoy to con the PLO. I told her
“Quick, put this on!”
Passing her a clean djeballa, I had snatched it from a washing-line the previous day. As she donned a keffiyah, pinched from another line, it hid her telltale golden hair from view disguising her as an Arab youth. Hurriedly handing over a sketch map, I told her how to contact Israeli forces in Beirut. In the dark and the American slipped past all sentries.
Fearful of spies and next day the PLO launched an enquiry; they linked the tattered denim, which I had left in the store to the jeans that the girl had left behind in her locker. Believing that she must have planned her escape alone, taking the passport convinced them – no Israeli spy. Everyone knew that if she had been one, she would need no papers in these parts. It kept me safe and aided her getaway.

- 36 -

One month later and as I took out my mounting frustrations on the range, Israeli jets swooped and screaming rockets smashed into the arsenal. A violent blast shaking the earth and razing several people and buildings, determined to survive, I dived into a shallow ditch. An evil scene, as instant death mounted a sequel, Palestinians panicked. Unlike them, free to go, amidst the awful confusion, I fought a path through billowing smoke.
Intent on reaching the Mossad underground station then secretly located between Christian East and Muslim West, my passage through Beirut fraught with danger, reaching sanctuary in Israel, I had not survived. A Kafkaesque experience, it had scarred my essence. At my debriefing, the Unit 504 guys urged me pour it out and sharing with them all I knew, they told me the American girl had followed my sketch, the Mossad had got her back to her mum and dad. All of a sudden, mine still seemed like a worthwhile job. A’man rewarded me with a spell of leave to enjoy my other life.
By now 1982 and in the previous year, Syria had deployed SAM-6 missiles in the Beka’a Valley while the PLO had launched rockets in Galilee. Determined to thwart them and massing troops along the northern frontier, Israel searched for peace, but Defence Minister Ariel Sharon claimed it took war to find it. Lighting his fuse, a terrorist attempt to assassinate Israel’s Ambassador to London gave him his match. As Sharon knowingly got his facts wrong, he blamed the PLO, for once guiltless, it didn’t matter it presented his opportunity to take out Arafat. Warmongering and Sharon went together, no problem to him that it killed Israelis too. As he dreamt up the Peace for Galilee Campaign, charming label, but in reality it meant bulldozing Lebanon and more slaughter. Meanwhile, taking a break within the ruins of a bombed house with several more officers, I lost the helmet and shaking dust from my hair as one guy joined me, expressing his surprise, he declared
“I’m Avrim. I didn’t realise that – that you’re a woman!”
As our eyes met, his smile disarmed me, but as sounds of fresh battle reached our ears, now not the time to flirt, we rejoined the combat. Unable to keep him far from my thoughts, as the IDF claimed Beirut Airport, the campaign should have ended there. Posing no threat, everyone knew that the sad refugee camps at Sabra and Shatila sheltered unarmed Palestinians. During Arafat’s occupation of Lebanon, the PLO had heaped countless cruelties upon the Lebanese Christian Phalange and right now, they lusted for revenge. Aware of the situation, in defiance of IDF advisors, Sharon entered into an unholy covenant with the Phalange. No excuse, damning him a war criminal, Sharon ordered the IDF step aside. Led by the infamous Elie Holbeika, the Phalange entered the camps. Indulging in a gruesome orgy of rape and torture they murdered 800 Palestinians. As the PLO made their exit, Lebanon staged elections. One pretender, certainly no winners, Phalange

- 37 -

Party leader, Bashir Gemayel, soon voted president-elect and days later Syrian spooks nailed him. Holbeika survived much longer, until 24 January 2002, when a bomb in Beirut took him out.
Back in Israel, my concerns focused on quite different problems. Avrim had also returned to base. Making my life difficult, he made sure that our paths met all the time. Sex still my forbidden fruit, nothing impeded my love and unable to resist flirting with him, a little older than me, fun, tall, dark, and gorgeous, Avrim was every girl’s dream. As I surrendered myself to him, we saw each other lots more often. Falling hopelessly in love, I adored him. Facing a cruel crisis, soon he must expect more than kisses and cuddling. One evening, as we attended a lecture, taking seats next to one another and holding hands. Happy just to be near him, until the stigma crushed me. No right time, I had to tell him now. The talk ended without our notice and flagrant something wrong, as he sensitively squeezed my hand, Avrim enquired
“Why won’t you look at me – I love you.”
“You’ll never want to see me again,” I muttered, fighting my tears.
“You’re breaking my heart,” he told me and pledged, “I want you to be my wife.”
“I can’t be your wife not…”I responded “Not with my problems…”
“Tell me what’s wrong” he begged “Why can’t I marry you?”
As my shame returned, my head bowed and owning up, I told him there was a problem with my body. Faltering, I unveiled that when I was born, an appalling mistake, everyone thought me a boy. Unable to meet his eyes, pain intense, my heart broken, it took me back to the midwife. Kidding myself, I had not moved on my demons had never left me. As our gaze met once more, in a rush opening up, trembling, I confessed to him.
“Look at me!” he directed, his eyes mellow russet, Avrim kissed away my tears and declared “Woman, I love you even more…”
Daring to dream of peace, I could almost touch my deliverance, so in love, my heart sang with joy. I had not known such happiness in this land, now my home. Deeper in love, as we talked over our future, yearning to escape the slaughter, no longer starry-eyed, we had witnessed too much killing. As I searched my soul, feeling empathy for Palestinians and Israelis, but despair for children. Abandoning my teenage dream to join the Mossad, I had found love and it conquered all.
Our minds made up deciding to quit the IDF, we told them our plans and weeks later the army posted us to a relatively low-risk sector. As I left my observation post and jumped into a jeep, three soldiers joined me. As we set off to patrol the border, along the route, we spotted a small group of Arab guys huddled around an old truck.

- 38 -

Ordering our jeep to halt, I grabbed my binoculars for a closer look, aware of our presence, yet as we lingered and gaped at them, suspiciously, they studiously ignored us. Encircled by razor wire and high-voltage fences, a sensitive zone and fearing an ambush, I radioed for reinforcements. Keeping them under close watch, as we waited, shortly, as my sergeant reported two jeeps making a cloud on the horizon, I recognised Avrim in the lead patrol.
Soon joining us and as hell exploded, determined to protect me, in slow motion, Avrim leapt from his jeep directly into mine. Bullets meant for me tore into him. Saving my life, Avrim’s bloodied body fell upon me. Mum and Dad never knew the real reason why in the sixties, I had loved to sit and watch it on the television, but Defoe’s splendid tale of lonely desert island survival inspired me. Robinson Crusoe looked so happy when Man Friday showed up…I had just lost him.
Rocking back and forth atop a hospital bed taking the pain inside, I blamed me for his death. A nurse injected something into my arm and as I sank into oblivion, for me it could have stayed like that, but as he entered my life, it felt like I knew the man standing before me. Save for his crisp starched white shirt, dressed all in black, must be 65, his face benign it portrayed great compassion.
Off with his Homburg and a silken yarmulka covered his head. Silvery, fine his hair matching its elaborate thread. A trim beard, he began
“I am deeply sorry...”
His voice resonant, betraying hints of German, I reckoned that my confidant must be a rabbi. Sitting on the bed and refusing to let me keep it in, as all my tears welled up, I needed his shoulder. Making me relive the moment, afterwards, as he dried my tears, he had lured me from my agony. It let me move on and over the weeks, as we talked, I found his wisdom inspiring. One day, as we embraced once more, certain now he was no rabbi and curious, I asked him for his name. In response, sharp and mysterious, like Dad’s friends, my benefactor insisted
“Only your recovery is important.”
“I must call you something” I persisted. “I know – I’ll call you Moses!”
“Why Moses?” he demanded.
He had found me lost in a wilderness and implored me to stay and revive my dream or eternally regret it, but was this the Promised Land? As we talked more, seen as the bad guy, he recognised that Israel’s stained image tarnished the good guys behind the scene and Moses reckoned that if all the good guys gave up, it would end Israel, as we knew it and give more power to the zealots and Sharon.

- 39 -

If I had gone back now where would I be? It was 1983, nine in the morning and I had to attend another IDF base near Ramat Gan. Eyeballing me from behind his desk, a nameless civilian dressed in a harsh brown suit and matching brogues, suggested that I take a seat before him. Indifferent as he fingered a folder crowded with who knew what on me, dark and beetle-browed, he dared me
“You’ll need to go through rigorous tests before you may join the Mossad.”
I had to visit another safe place in Herzliya where another team of trick cyclists opened up my head, as they probed for faults. They began by querying
“What makes you tick?”
“I felt ashamed because of…I feared losing my parents love. I had to prove myself and here I am” I replied.
“Are you saying your misfortune at birth has been a positive help?” he quizzed.
“What misfortune?” I asked him.
“The nature of this work is often tricky and extremely stressful, and with your background” he queried, “What makes you think you’ll cope?”
I didn’t apply for this job, an invite, they wouldn’t dare do that if they thought I couldn’t cope, it’s how and why I got here. As for the stress, if I hadn’t dealt with that I wouldn’t be here at all. It was just a wind up to see where I was in my head, before we got too deep, today I knew me better and told him
“I owe plenty to Avrim, he transformed how I see myself.”
“How did your relationship with him help you?” he quizzed.
“He was my Everest” I responded “When I told Avrim about me, no hesitation, he accepted me totally and loved me because I’m a woman. I live by his verdict.”
“Are you recovered from his death?” he enquired, gently.
“How do I recover, I’ve learned to survive” I told him, frankly.
One week on, I returned to the military base. A medico awaited me. My shame had passed, but still embarrassed as I stripped off, he examined me. Passed A1, I returned to Tel Aviv and filling out endless boring questionnaires, they demanded solutions to far out complex settings. All done and two weeks later a taxi dropped me outside the austere Hadar Dafna Buildings. Brutalism blocks, a real concrete carbuncle in King Shaul Boulevard, I ventured inside the Mossad headquarters. Offering myself to a clerk at the desk and at once rushed into an office, I met a solemn bloke posing as a recruitment officer. He told me

- 40 -

“We reckon you have the right stuff. The work you’ve already done has created useful openings – we’ll see. First, you must pass the test. If you fail, don’t come back, there’s no appeal process.”
Seven days on, I returned to the Mossad HQ. They stuck me in a room and gave me loads of questions wanting the dirt on my sexual habits and preferences, easy, as for the sex part, it stayed blank and as for politics, these days it’s harder to find anyone worth a vote. I gave them enough to figure me no Nazi or bin Laden. Holed up in the dreary chamber for monotonous hours, I kept myself going drinking foul vending machine coffee. Enduring the grim ritual almost every day, each time I finished one set of papers the mind games began.
As I waited for them to call me, the Mossad meant to stretch my patience, their response later and later as they tempted me to phone them, if I had done, that meant failure. Three months on, the nail biting ended they told me pack two cases and committing them to paper, they required me to invent a false title and job. Claiming to be an accountant I called myself Rebekah Stern, Mum liked Rebecca after watching the film and Stern? No, certainly not after the gang, it symbolised my life.
Next day, taking a taxi to my pickup point, I sighted three men loitering by a bus. One guy identified himself as an instructor and while he helped me stow my stuff, one of his buddies wanted my passport and the paper with my fake name and job. As I boarded the bus, it rumbled into motion. Not a regular service, it carried few fares. Leaving Tel Aviv behind us as we took the Haifa road, travelling the coast, it proved pleasant until we met the junction near Herzliya. Unlovely souvenirs, as I stared at the pockmarked concrete it etched old wounds. A few years earlier, this route led to another vile Force 17 outrage when they hijacked two buses. In the sickening carnage that ensued, over one hundred people lay dead or wounded.
Isolated by the sea, the hôtel nestled down a quiet beach road and a popular venue it offered its guests apartments in lieu of rooms. As I left the bus and retrieved my luggage, the instructors led us all to separate quarters. Once everyone had dumped their cases, the instructors vigilantly shepherded us into a capacious dining room where everyone shared a hearty breakfast. Afterwards, we retired to a conference suite where, as nerves jittered, standing before us, the chief instructor welcomed us to the test.
Our mentor warned us that no matter what might happen next, we would need to rely on our judgment to save us. Not just me, he scared everyone, making us all feel much like I did before my childhood ghost train ride in Rhyl. He added
“We need to be sure you’re the right people for us.”

- 41 -

That sorted us and made some feel they shouldn’t be there, but to me, it sounded like another dare. Starting at once, head to head around the table, no rules, told to twist and tumble each other, we had to stick to our new legend while trying to call the real identity of the other players. Not making life easy, conniving instructors dwelt among us, no jokers; throwing in wild cards, they lost some the game. A taxing slog, after about three, who knows, four hours, the sport ended. A good start, wedded to my new me, later that day I had to get into my jeans and trainers and return to Tel Aviv. Moses was right, I needed to function. Facing another test, my instructor warned me I had exactly fifteen minutes to show up on a balcony. As he pointed to a block of flats standing across the street, before I could make a start, he wanted me to tell him my plan. Israel had loads of settlers, a transitory nation and business booming for property agents, as more folk met grisly deaths, more space fell empty. Clocking the ‘for sale’ boards gave me an idea, I told him
“I want to rent an apartment. I’ll say this block looks right, to help me decide, I’ll ask if I can see the view.”
Haring up three flights of stairs and reaching the floor I wanted, first making sure it was the right one and knocking upon the door, as the clock ticked, I feared no one was home. As the door drew slowly back, an elderly chap poked out his head. Offering him a smile, for once my wiles making no impression and taking a stab, I enquired
“Are these apartments for sale or to rent?”
As he peered at me through his thick bifocals getting us nowhere fast, I sought fresh inspiration. Humid in the city, hoping he was a gent, I felt daft pretending to drink from an imaginary tumbler, but my mime elicited no response. Saved by his favourite football team poster in his hallway. Pointing to it, I cried
“Maccabi!”
His face lit up. Long retired, but who could forget them and as we revered Law, Charlton and Best, he poured me an iced drink. An instant later, as the instructor observed us from the street below, standing on the veranda together, my new pal pointed to a distant blur and claimed that his team played there. I believed him, but his specs saw more than me. When I returned to the car, another player shared the rear bench with me. Intent on our game and too petrified to risk even a nod, once back at the hôtel, more like a convent, religiously, we pursued our vows.
Next day, motoring into Tel Aviv again, the car stopped in a top shopping area in Dizengoff Street. Making sure that I had pen and paper, promising to pick me up later, recording all activity, times and descriptions the instructor directed me to watch an office across the street.

- 42 -

As I stepped out onto a busy pavement, pulling away from the kerb, the car swiftly merged with traffic. Eager to escape bustling shoppers, I found refuge by the portico to a big department store. A superb vantage point, it gave me a great view of my objective. Following my instructions and disguising all my notes, an hour later, bored, not for long, a cop car screeched, two muscle men leapt out and purposeful, making for me, one cop asked me what I was up to. Unable to leg it, so trying hard to look innocent, but never going to work, in a frightened voice, I told them that I was window-shopping. Ignoring all protest without more ado, the cops grabbed my arms and dragging me to their car, useless to resist, they shoved my head down and pushed me onto the rear seat. As one cop climbed in beside me, he suggested that I make it easy on myself and tell him my name
“Rebekah Stern” I responded, sticking with my cover.
“We want your real fucking name!” He bawled, none too nice.
The car pulled into a grubby yard encircled by high walls, the sign trumpeted a cop shop, reminiscent of an old film set, like the Prisoner in Portmeirion, I was having none of their number. As the cops urged me out of the car, we entered the station, hurrying me along a narrow corridor into a dungeon-like chamber, as they guarded the door, I took a hard seat by a severe wooden table. No ID and couldn’t say I was on a secret mission for the Mossad, in many parts my confession would end me there. As the door swung back, a grizzled inspector strode into the room. A huge man, I put his age at 50. He ordered me to empty my pockets. I dropped my Parker and paper on the tabletop. A pen made a potential weapon. He passed it over to his seconds and then demanded my papers. Looking put out, I cried
“My papers, I’m British – do I need papers?”
As I tried to pick up the paper from the table, thinking better of it when one cop by the door reached for his pistol, the inspector snatched the scrap and a quick perusal, contemptuously screwing it into a ball, he threw it on the floor. Standing by my chair, his features cruel, mood malevolent, he slipped a huge baton from his thick leather belt and realistic, began to simulate masturbation – bang! Smashing his truncheon down on the tabletop, he exploded
”I want a fucking confession!”
His men seized my arms. A salacious grin, the inspector blew me a kiss and a lewd gesture, as he caressed his genitals and exhibited his bulge. Indifferent to it, as I disappointed him, he roared
“We’ve got eye witnesses, you watched their offices for more than an hour. I’m throwing you in the cells until you give me the fucking truth!”

- 43 -

As the door slammed behind me, it gave me time to dwell. Two lonely hours crawled by before the cops dragged me back to the festering room. No time to notice it before, but much like the cell bored paint covered rough brick and the harsh concrete floor, tough steel barred the window. Shortly, as the inspector knocked twice, casually taking the spare chair as he sat facing me, gently, he counselled that if I revealed my name, it would go no further. If I liked, he would even ask his officers to leave, making me more promises, he pledged to handle everything and claimed he knew that I had good reason not to tell him. He had to be joking, he confided
“I’m a policeman – you can tell me...”
No deal and scowling, quickly rising to his feet, as he skulked off abrupt silence promptly descended. Looking fed up, the other cops remained by the door. A moment later and an urgent knock roused them. As one man opened the door and ventured into the corridor outside, after a brief bout of whispering, he returned to the cell and passing me my pen, he said I could go. In no hurry, thinking ahead, I retrieved my jottings off the floor, the knotty tabletop helped me smooth the crumples. I knew the instructors must ask me for them. The cops returned me to Dizengoff Street. Keeping his promise, the instructor’s car conveyed me back to the hôtel and once back in my room, a rare day, I set about my report. During dinner, okay to talk about it now, like me, everyone else had enjoyed a riot with the phoney cops.
Next day, as we all piled into a minibus and returned to Tel Aviv, leaving the bus behind in Haifa Road near a big railway station, a brief tour, we gathered inside a humble hôtel. As he picked on me, returning to the street, one instructor pressed a small black object into my palm. I recognised it at once as an electrical component for a car. As I popped the rotor arm into my pocket, about to begin another strange chore, he led me across the street and pointing out a flashy red Ford, directed
“I want you to figure how to swap the part in that car with the one I’ve just given you, I promise you it’ll fit. Fail the test you fail the whole course, the car’s alarmed and your time limited, the test starts…now!”
As he started his stopwatch, I moved fast. Standing in a reserved space within a private compound, as I quickly checked it out, new or thereabouts, I have never broken into a vehicle and sure to upset the alarm, not the greatest idea in broad daylight. I didn’t want to visit a real cop shop. Deciding that the car’s owner must work in the office block adjacent to the compound, racing against time, I noted the Ford’s registration number and dashed into reception. Once at the desk, I asked to see the vehicle’s owner. Shortly, as he appeared before me, I asserted

- 44 -

“The Ford in the car park’s yours” as he nodded “Good, this’ll take a minute…”
My real trouble lay in persuading a man to trust me with his second favourite toy. Briskly moving to the door, as I held it invitingly open, hesitating a moment, he decided to trail me outside. Once in the compound, as we paused by the car, I let him examine the rotor arm. Peering at it like it might have fallen off a passing spaceship, he was no wiser. Fibbing and I told him that walking by I had noticed it under the car and said it must have worked free. Volunteering to fix it, I assured him that he would never start the engine without it and making up his mind for him, wasting no more of my precious time, as he unlocked the car, I raised the bonnet.
Motor mechanics had formed part of my army training and as I prised free the distributor cap and pulled off the rotor arm, a set up, the replacement refused to fit. Pushing the original part back onto its post, I slipped the decoy quickly into my pocket. A quick check, the motor started first time. Apart from all else, the bizarre test taught me, in this game, trust nothing and no one. When I returned to the hôtel, clever clogs met me in the lobby. As I gave the dubious part to him, testing my integrity and my humour to the limit, he asked me if all was okay.
“It doesn’t fit” I told him, laughing, “And you know it!”
Upon rejoining my fellow stooges, all at once the doors crashed open as half a dozen foreign players rushed into the lobby. A great drama, their captain a true artiste, in a rage, he yelled
“Move – all of you, you’re coming with us!”
Playing it for real, the posse flashed badges, but had to be fake cops. Snapping on cold handcuffs, they frogmarched us all outside and hustled everyone towards a waiting van. Once locked inside the vehicle, foot down, losing no time burning rubber, as the van hurtled, its not just tyres that squealed. Our wings clipped and driven around the bend we all fell about landing in one another’s laps. A sudden halt, as the van doors flew back dazzling our vision we saw nothing save glaring beams. Reacting to their shouted urgent orders, out we jumped. Another moment and a cloth bag dropped over my head, a tight grip, they pushed me into some building. Led along it seemed miles, until relieved of my blindfold, I found myself standing in a brightly lit corridor wedged between two men. No ceremony, as I watched, one guy unlocked a door and shoving me in the back, his buddy pushed me into a cell little larger than a cupboard. Slam, a key jangled in the lock.
As I rested on a minuscule wooden bench, an ordeal in itself not knowing what might happen next in this theatre full of menace, I didn’t wait long to find out. As evil white noise hurt my ears, defending my eyes from the glare and staring above at recessed

- 45 -

tubes in the ceiling by candid camera dots, the racket poured out of mesh grilles sat by them. Hard to think, yet scorning the little red panic button fixed by the door, long ago, I warned the bullies I’m no sissy. It proved useless trying to block the racket with my fingers and using my head before it exploded. A novel idea took my imagination. Not much different from screeching jet engines and in my mind’s eye now aboard Concorde. Convincing me that the appalling din no longer mattered and flying free as I surfed the clouds, it still seemed ages before the cabin door opened and my white-knuckle flight terminated. When my gaolers let me out, I felt hyper and unable to enjoy the peace, my ears plagued by ringing, a pounding head failed to help. Steered along could be anywhere corridors, as I tried to keep my wits intact, gamely hunting for clues, naked walls, bare marble floors, for sure no signs on doors all conspired to throw me.
As acrid fumes stung my sight, pitched into a murky chamber and made to sit on a hard chair before a massive desk, I found myself in a ‘forties film set making an old spy movie. No script in the dark like all the best flicks suspenseful and for sure chilling, minimalist props added to a gripping atmosphere. The Bogeyman facing me scarcely lit by a jade-cloaked desklamp glowing dully by his elbow, as more smoke got in my eyes, it hurt my streaming gaze. Ears droning like bagpipes, the reeking smog and prickly heat rapidly sponsored more unease.
Hating the harsh bracelets, I tried dabbing at my runny eyes with a sleeve in a vain effort to witness the big man’s fearful features. Horribly distorted by thick shadow, his glare unblinking never leaving me, he lit another fag. Charmless and abrupt, making me jump, he thundered
“Why were you tampering with cars?”
“Oh that” my head still jangled by the racket, I told him ”No, you’re wrong!”
“Don’t fucking argue with me!” he stormed.
As Bogey reclined in his throne, taking in me, and more clouds, complacent, his clothes wrinkled and his hair messy tumbles of dark knots. Beard stubble only added to seething illusion. Finally breaking the spell, he stubbed his fag and snarled
“You’re in for a fucking shock, I suspect you of drug trafficking….”
Butts crowding the tray, he lit another fag and ordered his heavies to strip-search me. Hauled up from the chair, propelled back along the corridors, as one guy released the handcuffs his mate threw a bath towel into the cell, as I joined it, waiting outside, they slammed shut the door. Don’t worry. I had not forgotten the cameras spying on me from above. Wrapping myself in the towel before stripping off, feeling a lot more vulnerable naked and forced to leave my things in the cell I knocked upon the door. At

- 46 -

once, they led me to a bathroom. Immensely relieved, not joining me my imagination had figured worse, they suggested that I take a shower. Welcoming the opportunity to freshen up after my sticky audition, I checked, but no cameras in sight and dropping the towel, I stepped into the cubicle whereupon it sprang into life. A painful icy deluge lashing my body, leaping out, shivering and cursing as I snatched up another towel from a fluffy pile, quickly drying myself, it subdued my fury. At least, the shock cleared my head. Wrapped in a fresh towel and I rapped upon the door. Back before Bogey, my togs rested in a crude cardboard box perched on his desk. He confessed
“It seems we’ve been pissing up the wrong tree, Miss Mayer.”
“Mayer?” I responded “My name’s Rebekah Stern.”
“Relax you’re with friends now, Ruth, I have your Mossad file” an irony, he added “We’ve not treated you very well, forgive us, we had to make it realistic.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about” I told him.
“You don’t understand” he insisted, “The exercise is over, get dressed, we’re letting you go. We’re giving you a ride back to the hôtel.”
“You’ve lost me” I patiently persevered “My name’s Stern, I’m an accountant from England. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Thank you, Ruth, I know who you are…no need to maintain the pretence” he assured me, “I apologise about any rudeness.”
As Bogey returned my clothes, one henchman told me it was late and making me scurry, as I chased him along the lengthy passage, clutching the box containing my clothes. Nearly losing my towel in my rush to freedom, suddenly, from behind us, his partner yelled we must to stop. Catching us up and pulling a face, he told me
“It’s your name, we’ve a problem, trust me the headfuck’s over this is between us, we’ve fucked up and not done our paperwork, your name’s Mayer – right?”
“We’ve done this bit,” I responded, “I’ve nothing to add.”
“No – really, I’m serious” he insisted, “If you don’t confirm your name we lose our jobs, you don’t want us to use the rubber gloves and do a proper fucking strip search.”
Snatching freedom and my clothes from my grasp, still wrapped in the towel, they marched me back to gaol to give me more time to change my mind. After an age, released from the cell and facing Bogey again, as he tried to mess my head, fuming, he claimed that if I didn’t help him, he would lose his job.
“Are you prepared to give me your real fucking name now?”
“I’m sorry, I’ve nothing to add.” I told him, placidly.

- 47 -

“You’re lying!” he stormed, “Believe me, you don’t want to piss me about I can give you your worst fucking nightmare.”
Taking a British passport from his pocket, as he held it to the lamp and perused its particulars, still trying to mix me up, and gloating, he divulged
“You used this passport to enter Israel its got your mugshot, your details, its not in the name Rebekah Stern, it has a different fucking name, unless you tell me…”
“I’d love to help you” I claimed, “Its like I said, I’m using my real name.”
“So be it,” declared Bogey.
Making it look good, as they wrenched me from the chair, my gaolers marched me from the chamber down another labyrinth. My bare toes frozen tramping icy marble, they thrust me into another strange room. More glaring spotlights and for good measure, sitting on top of a surgical stainless steel table a small tube of lubricating jelly dwelt by a big box of rubber gloves. As one man pulled out a pair, my heart sinking as I watched him pull them noisily on. As my imagination conjured up a fearful vision, placing the box, which held my things, on the tabletop, his buddy told me to drop my towel and bend over. Bogey had kept his promise, still time to change my mind, they observed
“We don’t need to do this just tell us the name on the passport.”
Swallowing my pride and my bum facing them, loosening the towel, I let it fall. Gentlemen after all, as one man stooped and handed me the towel, a lot more discomfited than me, beating hasty retreat and both men fled. Daring done and once dressed, feeling tons better, still wondering if I could have gone through with it, alas, on another day I would find out. As the fun ended, my ex-gaolers led me to a waiting Ford. Dark outside and seeing as I would soon be enlightened anyway, once in the car, as he handed me my passport, looking very tentative, one guy enquired
“Any hard feelings?”
“Of course not” I assured him. “Shalom.”
We didn’t get far, as the car halted before a barrier, armed sentries challenged the driver. When they had dealt with him, I produced my returned passport. All clear as they hoisted the barrier, once beyond the security post outside in the road, safe to look back now and recognition dawned. Officially labelled the Prime Minister’s residence, in reality, it was the Mossad Academy. Located on the crest of a hill, it overlooked the hôtel where the driver dropped me. Three weeks later, I had to attend the Hadar Dafna Buildings. Back before the recruitment officer and offering me his hand, he exclaimed “Congratulations!”

NAKED SPYGIRL Chapter Two