Israel Jihad in Tel Aviv פּרוֹלוֹג مقدمة

By Ariel Lilli Cohen

This is a journey to the outer fringes of the law, which started in 2014, before the war in Gaza. It’s the work of a group of friends, who became, in the space of a few months, one of Mossad’s best operative teams.

"In Israel, no one really dies. In Israel no one really lives."

Ariel Lilli Cohen was born on 6th December 1988 in Haifa (Israel) and is the third of three siblings. Her father Darius Cohen was a former Agent of Ha'Mossad and her mother Noha Avner is now a High Official on Shin Bet, the Israeli Security Agency. She was in the past a Lion Soldier of Magav, the Israeli Border Police in Jerusalem.

They are a Jewish family.

Ariel speaks fluently Hebrew, English, French, Arabic, Russian, Urdu and Italian. She also likes travelling and having fun like a girl of her age, but fighting against Islamic terrorism is her mission. Ariel becomes a soldier at the age of sixteen . After her sixteenth birthday, the Army enlists her thanks to her high IQ (she scored 164). She has been since part of a special team called "Genius", with the task to solve problems in unconventional ways. Ariel is a "former" soldier of the Israeli Security Forces Special Unit (IDF). She joined various "undercover" military actions, living many lives in one.

To avoid going crazy and find herself again, she decided to write this book. To tell all her experiences, fears, hopes, loves, and untold truths, she chose the form of the novel. She started writing her story in 2014, before the last war in Gaza. This novel was published in Hebrew, English, Arabic, Russian, French and Italian. 

She cares about her Country and believes that Israeli people’s desire is to live in peace, but unfortunately they always have to defend themselves, not only from foreign enemies but from their own citizens, too.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ariel Lilli Cohen
• Release date: Nov 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9788827509494

Book preview

Lilli

Prologue – Noora

January 2014 - Hotel Kempinski, Geneva

Noora is sitting in the hotel bar. It may be due to the purple colour that seems to envelop everything around her, from the bar to the ceiling and chairs, or the light at dusk that gives the large lake in front of her an even more melancholy air, but Noora's mind is lost in memories of what once was.

She feels something stirring in her stomach as she thinks of the wonderful years spent at Eton with people from all over the world and kids from the richest families, who were no better than she was, as she soon realised... Still they were beautiful years. She even feels nostalgic about her teachers, most of whom she thought she hated at the time. And then her Master in Social Sciences at NYU... how she misses New York City... especially the windy days when the air used to swirl in the avenues making it hard just to keep clothes on. She reminisces about the cold weather, that same cold making the air in Geneva so clear and the lake reflecting Quai de Mont Blanc’s thousands of lights. Almost everyone who was born in the Middle East hates that cold; they see it as wrong, unnatural. But Noora liked it: it made her want to be cuddled by someone who could warm her up.

How long has it been? Fifteen? Yes, it has been almost fifteen months since she left Qatar. This trip to Geneva is her first escape after staying for so long in a place that she doesn’t feel is home anymore. After all, that's what she should have expected when she agreed to become the third wife of the Emir of Qatar. Initially, she was flattered and figured out how many good things she could do with organisations such as UNICEF to put what she studied into practice and help all those orphaned and disadvantaged children, but the day-to-day reality turned out to be much different – lots of worldly events, parties, dinners, but very little of a concrete nature. She became a UNICEF ambassador, but she knew quite well that it was the royal family's immense wealth that made it possible and not her skills. The other two wives were much more comfortable in their role, but they were the Emir's cousins and belonged to the same family. She, on the other hand, was not. She was born in the UAE as the daughter of an ambassador and now she was a Sheika, so why did she want to run away so badly?

Noora's bout of nostalgia is interrupted when an elegant man reaches the bar; he doesn’t look very happy either, but seems more disappointed than melancholy. He is very handsome and athletic, and there is a strange look in his eyes. Noora can’t keep staring at him and turns her eyes away, as her bodyguards are definitely watching her and who knows what they’ll report to the Emir. With a last peek at him, she notices a detail clashing somehow with the rest of his appearance. Instead of having a handkerchief in his jacket pocket, he has a badge with a name and a symbol that she doesn’t recognise.

A whiskey please, says the man sitting four seats down from Noora, who is no longer the barman's only customer. He stops lining up wine glasses and approaches the newcomer.

Any preference?

Glenlivet, if you have it.

The barman pours the man what he asked for Here you go... Jamal, he says, pointing to the badge on his pocket.

Yeah... can you tell me how in the world a guy with two queens gets two chips, and then in the fifth hand the bank gives him the third queen?!

Noora is somewhat disoriented, trying to understand what they are talking about. Jamal's clear Middle Eastern accent piques her curiosity.

You should know, says the barman, poker is skill, but at least 60% of it is luck.

You're telling me, Jamal answers immediately, I do it for a living.

I've always wondered, can you really make a living playing poker tournaments?

That's what they're talking about, poker! And for some reason Noora feels a sense of past danger.

Of course, well, you have to be good but you can also make good money. The real problem is that you have to travel all the time.

Where are you from Jamal?

Noora is almost certain that Jamal's hesitation before answering the barman's question is due to the fact that he is looking at her and possibly sizing her up.

From Beirut, Lebanon, Jamal says, but he seems distracted. Here an additional confirmation, thinks Noora, then he continues, I'll be leaving for Hong Kong tomorrow, and, if all goes well, I'll continue on to Tokyo, Honolulu and Vancouver.

Noora crosses her legs and lets her left Jimmy Choo drop off her heel and dangle from her toes. From the corner of her eye she sees that her gesture catches Jamal's attention; she feels his eyes run up and down her body, and her heart begins to beat faster.

Wow, the barman's voice betrays a touch of envy, and where were you before coming to Geneva?

I was in New York City for two weeks for an important two-million dollar tournament.

And did you win?

Without consciously deciding to, Noora fixes her gaze on Jamal for the first time and runs the tip of her tongue over her upper lip, as if her lipstick wasn't merely a colour but also a taste of ripe cherries. Then she stands up, picks up her clutch and walks away. A figure in the shadow begins to move but is held back by someone else while Noora enters the bathroom in the hotel lobby.

Uh... I didn't make it to the finals, I only won two hundred thousand... Jamal answers, but it is as if a ghost is talking.

****

In the bathroom, Noora is sitting on the toilet, shaking. She is so hot she feels like someone is blowing hot air on her. Why has she done that? What was she thinking? What if the guards noticed? Now what can she do, she has to calm down. And what if Jamal accepted her invitation and followed her? No, he can’t, she keeps repeating to herself while her heartbeat shows no signs of slowing down. When she finally manages to slow her breath down, she gets up and opens the door, ready to recompose herself in front of the mirror. Jamal is there waiting for her. She begins to shake again, but then a part of herself she didn't even know existed takes over.

And how was New York? She hears herself saying with a hoarse voice that doesn’t seem like her own.

It was really windy, Jamal answers as he grabs her and pulls her to him. Noora loves the feeling of his hands on her back as she offers him her lips – a pleasure she realises she had not felt for way too long.

It is a long, deep kiss. Meanwhile, Jamal's hands lift up her light silk dress and begin to touch her, and she wants him to. Then, he breaks away from her to stare into her eyes, and Noora realises what struck her as strange about him: his eyes are different, one is a deep, dark green, and the other a streaky blue, like a cat eye. He turns her around and Noora knows what’s coming. She feels him bending down and taking off her underwear, then standing up and lifting up her dress. Noora rests her arms on the sink and opens her legs slightly, moaning as he enters her. Everything explodes in Noora's head; as soon as she recovers, he stops, bends forward and whispers in her ear,

May I...

She doesn’t even let him finish the sentence and says Do whatever you like.

****

The Emir gets back to the hotel a few minutes before midnight. He looks broody and tired. As soon as he enters his suite, he meets Faisal’s look, his personal adviser and friend – perhaps the only person he trusts completely.

My dear Faysal, it's all hopeless. I wonder why we ever bothered coming here. That stubborn Assad will never accept the Americans' demands, those dogs. I wouldn't either, then he stops because he realises Faysal is frowning – a face he only ever makes when something serious happens, and this time it must really be serious because instead of holding a large cigar in his hands as usual, he is holding a tablet.

Faysal, what's going on?

Your Highness, I have to show you something, but please sit down first.

The Emir sits down and Faysal gives him the iPad showing pictures of Noora's betrayal. The sovereign explodes in anger.

Dirty whore! I only married that bitch three months ago, he says, and look what she does the first time we leave Qatar! She gets fucked like a whore in the hotel toilet. I'll kill her with my own hands... He is about to get up, but Faysal's strong hand stops him.

There's something even worse, your Highness. The Emir looks up at Faysal in disbelief and dismay.

The person, the dog, who committed this outrage is an Israeli agent. Everyone in the room expected another outburst, but the old Emir remains silent and, when he finally speaks, his voice is as cold as ice.

It's time. It's finally time. With Allah's help, not a single stone of the damned State of Israel will continue to exist. It's time to settle the score with history. Faysal, my friend, please summon up those from Hamas and call Khalid, I want him to come here immediately. And now get out, all of you! The guards, who had remained silent, leave the room; when everyone is gone, on his way out Faysal whispers to him,

And Noora, your Highness?

I'll see to her myself, replies the Emir with a glint in his eye.

Remember whose daughter she is, your Highness.

I won't kill her. Not now if that's what you want to know, but now go and call Khalid.

Chapter 1 – Yael

Too much light.

These three words constantly echo in Yael’s mind while she waits with the rest of her family for Stern, the rabbi, to commence his ceremonial oration. Exceptionally, the memorial this year is not celebrated on Mount Herzel – location typically devoted to military obsequies, but on the plain on top of Yad Vashem, the so-called Hill of Memory, which was solemnly decorated for the occasion. The stage, which the rabbi is about to go on, is located in front of a big bricked and glassed building where, every year, Yael comes with her schoolmates to honour the deceased of the State of Israel. Chairs have been organised in two large wings with a passage in the middle; the army general staff is seated on the right side, behind them there are two rows of men in civilian clothes, who are also soldiers, as Yael knows. Indeed, they are her father’s ex-colleagues and, without her knowing it yet, soon to become hers too. The left side is reserved to relatives, friends and everyone who wished to take part to this commemoration.

In the same way she feels the heat growing in her eighteen-year-old body covered by clothes slightly too heavy for such a warm day but certainly appropriate for the occasion, Yael feels a physical sentiment of fraternity connecting her to all these people.

Behind the chairs, a long table, prepared by her mother with glasses and plates, is set up for the reception to follow. Beyond the walls marking the terrace’s perimeter, one can catch sight of Jerusalem’s roofs. 

Yael’s eyes are burning…

Finally, the rabbi appears onstage and starts his speech: We are here together to commemorate Eran’s tenth anniversary since his disappearance. He is one of the sons who escaped Shoah, one of the first generations our Lord, after many suffering and tribulations, decided to give back… The rabbi is talking about Yeal’s own father. She knows by memory the speech passages: a happy childhood, his formative years in the Kibbutz Zikim – a few metres away from what is the current Gaza Strip, his sport awards and, finally, his military career. He was the youngest special services’ official of his generation, and so on, until his death during the Lebanon war where he sacrificed himself to save his squad during the Sharp and Smooth operation against the terrorist attack in Zar’it Shlom.

All of those battles’ names have been fixed in Yael’s memory since that day, ten years earlier, when she heard them pronounced for the first time by a young official who knocked at the door of their Bauhaus-style house in the Rotschilda quarter of Tel Aviv. On that haunting day, Yael, who had just turned eight, was in the small front garden with her long-lasting friend Zohar playing grown-ups by smudging each other’s cheeks with mum’s make-up.

That man, getting out of a limousine, approached her and, leaning over her, invited her to follow him inside the house where he met her mother, Hodaya. She saw her mum collapsing on the armchair with her bump inhabited for the last seven months by her soon-to-be little sister Ariel, who her dad would never meet. Yael recalls, once again, her nearly thirteen-years-old brother Avner locking himself in his bedroom for three days, and a sense of inner emptiness she was unable to fill during those ten years.

The loss of her father left an empty space inside her. She missed his precious presence in her childhood; their cuddling moments in those few times he took a break from his service to spend the evening with the family; his answers to her many questions; he was a man she had just started to know. Possibly because of that immense emptiness inside her, that little girl, who had to grow up before her time, decided to pursue the military career following her father’s footsteps as a way to get to know and feel close to him.

For years, she spent hours tiring out her mother and brother with questions about anecdotes and memories on Eran’s life and now, that some of her father’s ex-colleagues are her current tutors, she takes various opportunities to ask them about episodes of his life. Today, ten years on, they are all here reunited. Her mother, Hodaya, who dedicated her life to work after Eran’s death, succeeded in setting up her catering business and is, nowadays, one of the most sought after in Tel Aviv. Her brother, Avner, who is a few weeks away from completing his military service, is handsome, attractive, with quasi-perfect features and a shadowy temperament increasing his charm. Adored by the young girls of half of Tel Aviv, he remains extremely faithful to Zohar, who sits next to him and holds his hand. Yael’s friend, Zohar, is now her brother’s girlfriend. Their love probably blossomed during those three days of Avner’s self-reclusion, ten years earlier, when he only allowed Zohar to come in and talk to him. Lastly, Ariel, who is now only one year older than Yael was when they lost their dad.

She has never met him; his warm and big hands have never hugged her. I wonder what she is thinking of the rabbi’s words, Yael is asking herself, when her distracted mind is suddenly brought back into the room by a change of tone in Stern’s oration:

"We all know these facts, they belong to the history, not only of the Cohen family, but of the whole country. Allow me now a personal memory. In 1972 we were just fifteen, and Eran was already a little… actually a great wrestling champion. His trainer suggested that if Eran practiced with constancy, he would try to take him to the Olympics. I shared with him a few hours during those training months. His determination impressed me. When I happened to be on the mat with him… Well, you can guess what happened… It was like confronting three rivals at the same time. Later on, one day at the beginning of June, I arrived at the gym and found Eran resting on the changing room’s bench with a towel around his neck and tears on his face. I approached him, put a hand on his shoulder, and asked what had happened. Eran looked at me with those dark, profound eyes, I am sure, many of you still remember.

Do you know the Russian guy, who moved from URSS last month? Mark, Mark Slavin, I think his full name is. He explained.

Yes, of course, the guy who won the Sovietic championship of Grecian-Roman wrestling last year. I answered. 

Precisely. He will go to the Munich Olympics instead of me.

We were only fifteen, so you can guess the disappointment he must have experienced from that decision. And yet, in the following days, he kept training himself with even more obstinacy, if possible at all, almost with fierceness, as if he fought not only to beat his rivals, but also to overcome his own limits. Only a few months later, I remember him at the memorial for the Munich massacre. We sat next to each other and the other gym mates. His eyes, fixed on Mark Slavin’s coffin, shined with a new light that day – the light of someone who knew he had been spared from a great tragedy to carry out a mission: to prevent such tragedies from happening again. I like to think that that day, or the following days, he developed the decision that brought him to sacrifice his life for all of us. Let us pray to our Lord now…"

Yael is happy and, at the same time, upset by the rabbi’s story. He added an important tassel to her personal collection of anecdotes on his father’s life – the more interesting as unexpected. She makes a mental note to go and visit the rabbi to obtain some more information about Eran’s adolescence.

What made her shiver, while the rabbi was talking, is the fact that she knows well that determination and fierceness he was talking about – they belong to her. Every time she forces herself to train her body beyond the usual class time, every time she stays in the library until late to study Israel’s history in depth, every time she practices shooting at the firing range. She suddenly understands her dad left a greater legacy than she had thought.

The ceremony is over. Hands have been shaken; hugs have been given and received; sorrowful events and common memories have been exchanged. Everyone ate and drank in abundance, and Hodaya almost received more compliments for the final reception than condolences. Yael is now helping the catering agency’s girls to clean up. Mum, can you tell me again how you and dad met?

Hodaya stares sweetly at her daughter’s face with slightly androgynous, yet genuinely beautiful features: her thin eyebrows, her high cheekbones, her sharp nose and fleshy mouth. Her dark frizzy hair, falling on her slim and muscly shoulders, shows a soft glow Hodaya cannot resist. She strokes her daughter’s hair feeling it pass through her fingers before she answers her question.

It was, you know, at that reception after the Gulf war, but the rabbi’s account today reminded me that actually the very first time I saw your father’s face was precisely at that memorial. I was only a child, roughly ten years old. The rabbi was right: Eran had such an intense look that I felt a cramp at the bottom of my stomach when his eyes met mines; he was probably not even looking at me, but that perceived look fascinated me so much that even today I feel the same sensation every time I think of it.

Yael would love her mother’s story to continue but Zohar interrupts their conversation: I am going back to Tel Aviv with Avner. Ariel is coming with us. How is the planning for this Tuesday going?

All fine. I spoke with Hezi, the owner of Tayaley, and he said he would reserve a room with sea view for us. Hodaya answers with a smile.

Excellent. So, as we agreed, you will casually mention to Avner that you’ll be both busy that night, so he’ll think that just the two of us will go out for a romantic dinner…

Sure, but without overstating it, or he will find out.

Yes, Yael, you are right. Let’s keep a low profile.

Next Tuesday it is Avner’s birthday, he will be twenty-three. Perhaps, the proximity of his birthday with Eran’s death made that day an important event for the whole family. Every year since, his mother, sisters and girlfriend have been planning a surprise party for him somewhere in the city. It is very likely, Yael suspects, that Avner is well aware of the party but plays along with it and, every year, pretends to be truly surprised.

Yael, may I talk to you one moment? The three women were so absorbed by their planning that did not notice a tall man, dressed in dark, approaching them.

Of course, uncle Tamir. Yael stares straight at colonel Tamir Amossi’s face. Tamir Amossi is ex-leader of Israeli Secret Services and has been Eran’s trainee. Since Eran’s death, he has become a constant presence in the Cohens’ life, to the point that Yael and her siblings call him uncle. They part from the two ladies who keep chitchatting.

Yael, how are you?

I am fine, dear uncle.

How is your first year of military service going?

I am half way through it, you know. I am fine, I am happy to…

Everyone is saying nice things about you… Someone said that on the training camp, at times, you remind them of your father… Yael bows her head and turns red to Tamir’s words.

Listen. Tomorrow, before going back to the military base, you need to go to the Mossad’s headquarters as they want to talk to you.

Are they going to ask me to carry on my conscription within the Secret Services? Yael realises her voice is trembling while she is asking this question.

Tamir smiles at her and gives her cheek a flick. It’s not up to me to say… no more.

He leaves her with one million emotions