Authors: Niv Kaplan
CHAPTER 16
Jalabia was a typical Arab village. Two- and three-storey houses with tall concrete columns sporadically clustered about, blended in with the lucid contours of the land. Most houses displayed the gray color of bare building blocks, proof of an everlasting construction process of adding rooms and floors. The painted portions did not fare much better being dominated by peeling yellow paint. Goat and sheep shelters were natural extensions of the living quarters with scattered dusty olive trees, thorns and dry weeds adorning the unkempt backdrop.
The unfinished structures and disorderly settings never seemed to matter to those occupying the villages, as long as a delicate balance with nature was left intact. There were no streets, no sidewalks, no lawns, no shopping centers, and no playgrounds. Just crisscrossing tire tracks on dirt surfaces from one house to the next, amidst small vegetable patches, watermelon fields, fig trees, grape vines, and piles of junk. The below par living conditions, filth and neglect, were contrasted by a tranquil beauty that evolved from a basic principle of not altering Mother Nature's settings.
A narrow asphalt road twisted up the steep incline to the village, dead-ending at the Mosque's square. The impressive structure was precisely built from common ‘mountai
n’
bricks, giving the building and its square an ethnic appearance, filled with history and tradition.
Jalabia's location and spread, starting at the foothills and sprawling up the Golan plateau, gave Eitan an excellent view of the outlay. He stood atop the driver’s seat of the hunting Jeep, resting his arms on the coverless roof support, closely surveying the area with large military binoculars. Mikki was in the passenger seat, thoughtfully puffing on a cigarette. He had quit smoking the year before but had rejuvenated the habit the day they had come storming into his room with the news of Karen.
From their vantage point, on a small natural ramp on the opposite side of the River Jordan, not half a mile away from the outskirts of the village, and well hidden by the thick vegetation, they could discriminate between the inhabitants almost to the color of their eyes. They were even able to peek through the windows, and discern the occupants.
Mustafa, code name "the ox", was so far nowhere to be seen. They had been watching the village for a week and were by now very familiar with its daily routines but no one resembling the large heavy figure with the prominent Turkish mustache could be spotted.
To pass the time and adhere to the meticulous task, they gave their subjects code names and would watch and log each activity according to the respective codes. The tall skinny fellow with the funny limp, in charge of the goats in house eleven, was given a code name "the droopy goat milker", and could be seen out and about milking his goats twice a day at seven in the morning and six in the evening. He would clean the shelter, after his helper, code name "goat herder eleven" would take the goats out grazing, and spend the rest of his time dangling from his hammock, in the shady front porch of his rundown house. A middle aged woman, who was either his mother or his wife, code name "the coffee maker", would serve him coffee on the hour, every hour, in small ceramic cups, on a fancy golden colored tray.
They were quite certain they had managed to pinpoint the cluster of houses where the photos were taken. House eleven was among them and they concentrated on watching its vicinity, though they made sure not to neglect the rest of the village. Only once during the week did they see a gathering of sorts at house eleven. "The droopy goat milker" had some friends over, none from Jalabia and none resembling "the ox". They sat on the front porch an entire Friday sipping coffee, playing backgammon, and laughing out loud. At five that afternoon, the three guests piled into an old pickup and left the village. Eitan and Mikki considered following them but passed on the idea, afraid of jeopardizing the setup.
The Jalabia avenue looked to be a dead end.
Nadav had gathered bits and pieces of information through army intelligence, and Sarah did some probing through civilian media databases, but none of it presented any breakthrough.
They finally decided to infiltrate the village and take a closer look around. It was a desperate move but no one had any better ideas.
"The ox" had yet to surface.
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Eitan was carefully studying the route he was planning to take. He
knew he wouldn't have a prayer during daytime. Jalabia was a small isolated community, not accustomed to passing traffic, and its inhabitants knew each other well. A stranger, even properly disguised with a kafiya and proper clothes, would immediately raise questions since they were an inherently suspicious bunch. He planned to sneak in at night and peek through open windows in hopes of reaching niches they could not probe from afar.
Mikki blew out the cigarette and looked ahead. He wasn't very useful without the binoculars and they only had one. He looked up at Eitan. They had come to like one another despite their different personalities and different line of interests. Eitan was the hunter, rough and practical, Mikki the thinker, collected and imaginative.
The task at hand and being cooped up in the Jeep for a week had brought them closer together and made them friends. After a rather cool start, the reserved pleasantries evolved to numerous heart to heart conversations, and they eventually discovered, that in fact, they did have a more than a few things in common. Similar service experiences, Mikki being a paratrooper and Eitan in Special Forces; carrying combat gear on an aching back; shooting a sub-machine gun on the run; hiding from incoming mortar, and storming enemy strongholds. Both had joined the forces and were released at the same time. They soon found out they had quite a few common acquaintances from both the service and from the Kibbutz movement.
Two months had passed since they first met, yet it seemed to have occurred somewhere in an unrelated past. The task on hand usurped all their energies. Eitan had managed to come up with his most creative arguments yet, to secure exclusive use of the hunting Jeep and convince his family, friends, and fellow kibbutz members, to give him a month to recover and ease into civilian life. Naomi would buy none of it and was on the verge of ending their relationship. To maintain household peace, he was seriously considering letting her in on their little secret. Mikki had an easier time securing time off, with no girlfriend to persuade and with his kibbutz being more lenient with discharged soldiers.
Once they had decided on the optimum surveillance fix, after careful consideration of all possible angles, they made a gallant effort to occupy it from sunrise until sundown. Occasionally, when he'd be too worn out to drive another hour, Eitan would slump into a sleeping bag on the floor in Mikki's room.
Sarah joined them a few times, breaking the monotonous routine of the lookout. She delighted them with her charm and wit and pretty soon her visits became something to look forward to. Her
end of the bargain, provided she made sure she could pay her rent, was to try and come up with new information regarding the case and its evolution over the last three years.
Nadav, whom they had all agreed would risk a serious court martial if caught actively
participating in their scheme, explored, within the limits of his accessibility to classified information, the authorities' involvement. His main task was to try and piece together the reason for the cover up.
They all put in time and effort but it soon became apparent that trying to decipher a case of such magnitude was like shooting at clay pigeons, blindfolded. Three lost years, a hostile intelligence environment, a consolidated wall of silence, and extremely limited resources, made it an almost impossible task.
They all knew it, but stubbornly plowed ahead.
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"You ready?" Mikki asked, looking at Eitan who was the soldier once again, dressed up in baggy fatigues, military boots, and a custom made hunting belt that housed a nine millimeter Beretta with a ten bullet magazine, a spare magazine, his evil looking hunting knife, and a hand-held radio they had recently purchased. His face was darkened with black charcoal. The white in his eyes looked a touch whiter and his teeth seemed a little shinier as he smiled reassuringly at Mikki. He was ready.
Mikki held the other radio in his hand. They had tested them in advance from a distance of one mile and they seemed to work fine. Their only purpose was to warn of trouble. They were not meant for information to be exchanged while the reconnaissance task was in progress.
The two stood for a minute staring the subdued village ahead, the sound of the river's running water piercing the silent night. They had crossed the river at the Daughters of Jacob bridge, a few miles south of the surveillance position, and carefully traced back over rugged terrain on the east side of the river, stopping just beyond the outskirts of the village, short of the entrance road. They were now approximately parallel to the surveillance site but across the Jordan. It was 21:00 hours and pitch dark. They had waited for darkness but made sure to begin well before the inhabitants turned in for the night.
It was time. Eitan waved and disappeared into the darkness. The village sparkled ahead. Mikki climbed into the driver's seat and sat rigidly ready to spring into action the moment the small radio squawked. He was about three hundred meters from the entrance road with a relatively clear path to it awaiting any unforeseen
complications.
Eitan walked fast and catlike-smooth. He reached the outskirts of the village in less than fifteen minutes and blended within its shadows. Familiar scents hit his sinuses, prevailing odors of horse manure and burned flesh. Sticking to building walls and darting through open spaces, he quickly made his way up the incline from one cluster of houses to the next, peeking into illuminated windows. The mosque's huge structure loomed ahead. Several figures were huddled in the middle of the square, talking in hushed voices. He circled the square in the shadows of the surrounding buildings and fled across a vegetable patch toward house eleven. Panting, he slammed into its wall and leaned with his back catching his breath. The village dogs began barking but he wasn't too concerned. They barked at anything.
He carefully peeked through the closest window into the renowned house. "The droopy goat milker" was alone in the living room asleep in front of the television. He went around the corner and peeked again. It was the kitchen - "the coffee maker" was washing the dishes. He circled the entire house but did not find anything he had not already been aware of. An additional lit room was situated above the tall columns, on the downhill side, out of his reach.
He moved to the neighboring houses finding nothing of interest. Not one unfamiliar face and certainly no one resembling "the ox". He continued up the hill moving from one cluster of houses to the next, inspecting each house, window to window. Zero luck! There wasn't anything he hadn't already observed from the surveillance site.
Disappointed, he started down the hill on the northern side, without too much hope of finding anything of value.
"Min hada?"
He heard a deep voice call out in Arabic.
He ducked low behind an old car wreck and froze. Someone coughed and he saw another stick his head from a window.
"Min hada?" 'Who's this?' the deep voice persisted. Eitan wasn't sure the identification request was meant for him. A few tense seconds passed. Eitan touched the pistol on his hip and looked frantically in all directions. Finally, he saw the man seated in a rocking chair on a small patio not thirty feet in front of him, staring in his direction. He remained crouched behind the wreck, frozen in his stance, not convinced the man had actually seen him.
A few more seconds passed. The head disappeared from the window and the coughing stopped. The man in the rocking chair grunted and raised a bottle to his lips. He took a long sip and began rocking back and forth. Eitan looked around for alternative routes,
realizing he was pretty much pinned down for as long as the man sat there staring in his direction. A column of fig trees was lined up to his left but at a distance of at least twenty feet of bare ground. To his right, a little closer, but still considerably distant, was the house where the coughing had come from. Directly behind him was more empty space. He was left with two choices: wait and hope the man either falls asleep or enters his house, or alert Mikki and make a run for it.
He decided to wait a while. The rocking continued. Eitan slowly changed from a crouching stance to a sitting position making
himself a little more comfortable. The man sipped his bottle and mumbled to himself every now and then, the house behind him entirely dark. Suddenly a light appeared inside the house and the door to the patio opened, illuminating the area. Eitan froze again. A silhouette of a woman stomped out and stood over the man, complaining in Arabic. The man stared up at her, then got up, raised the bottle over his head and threw it on the ground, shattering it to pieces. The woman stormed back into the house with the man behind her groaning. The doors slammed shut and soon after the lights were muted.
Eitan waited several minutes, afraid the commotion would cause others to curiously peak out, but to his relief, no one took interest. He then carefully sneaked past the impeding house and continued swiftly down the hill. By now, most houses were dark and not worthy of inspection. He circled the village to its northern outskirts where a shallow creek hid him from view and routed him to the River Jordan. He reached the river, and then followed it southward converging with Mikki twenty minutes later.