72 Virgins - Some background before jumping in...
Although the main part of the story takes place on US soil, the opening scenes come about in Tel Aviv, Israel and in Gaza. They set the tone, the mood and the nature of what Islamic terrorism is about. These people, the suicide bombers, do not commit their horrific act out of desperation, as many Westerners tend to believe. These suicide killers believe that their act of “martyrdom” would pave their path to heaven, next to Allah’s throne. They are the most selfish group of people on the face of the Earth.
Those who have never attempted their hand at fiction writing might not realize that a good quality novel requires a great deal of research, sustaining many of the fine points that shape the characters, the atmosphere, the scenes, the scenery, and the plot as a whole—keeping it real.
Much of the information imparted through 72 Virgins required profound knowledge, some aspects of which were not within my grasp before moving the plot to the fore. In particular, story elements pertaining to law enforcement and intelligence agencies, types and attributes of chemical weapons, particular locations, places, and modes of worship, as well as aspects of science and technology that inspire modern spying techniques—were building blocks I brought into play, with the help of added insight from qualified mavens.
I was lucky to have generous people, connoisseurs in their particular field, who were enthusiastic about parting with their expert advice and more than willing to share some of their knowledge and information with me.
I wish to start by thanking Philip Edney from the FBI who guided me through the maze of the FBI building in Washington DC, providing me with a thorough analysis of the organizational structure and the roles played by the different divisions and the field offices. He also enlightened me on the methods, style and forms of cooperation with other security and intelligence agencies, thus keeping me honest.
I wish to thank my friend Motti, not his real name, from the Israeli Mossad who ran through stories, scenarios, culture, personalities and roles, typical of that legendary agency, thus making sure that I do not misrepresent it or its operating procedures.
On the chemical weapons and bomb making technology, I was briefed by Major Samuel Vitkin from the Engineering Unit of the Israeli Army. It was his humor-filled speaking style, encompassing sarcasm and weird but funny similes and metaphors, which not only helped me acquire a handle on the subject, but nonetheless, provided me with key attributes I employed while portraying Jerry, one of the main protagonists in the story.
My publisher’s team of experts, Zach Coddington, Ron D., Helen Smith, Sandy Shalton contributed to cover and book design, editing and production.
Oliver James was the most enthusiastic, charismatic and supportive person when it came to having the manuscript see the light outside my laptop. He loved the story from the get-go, promoted it as a suspenseful and intriguing read from start to finish, then invested his publishing company’s resources in having it published.
If there is one person whose contribution was above and beyond others, it is my dear friend, Dr. Ilan Halpern. His dedication, patience, and editing prowess helped me perk up an earlier draft. Not only did he help improve readability, he was also instrumental in identifying some obvious errors, which inevitably, squeezed through and snuck in, even when the guards were on duty.
My brother, Professor David Perry, was influential in helping me enhance one major plot-twist, and thus, added to the thrill that the story would offer the reader.
And of course, my wife, Shelly, I still consider marrying her—a momentous over-achievement; she was first to read and comment on the initial draft. She had been the reason I gathered the courage and braved the commitment necessary to persevere all the way through this undertaking. Her early feedback, enthusiasm and encouragement granted me the energy required for spending lonely hours (that she was enduring as well) in front of the computer, trying to conceive subplots, achieve perfect flow, carry out meaty character development, employ proper language and clever lines, all embedded in the terrorism-filled reality that is today’s world.
To all of you—my friends, colleagues, and family—I am eternally grateful.
Those who have never attempted their hand at fiction writing might not realize that a good quality novel requires a great deal of research, sustaining many of the fine points that shape the characters, the atmosphere, the scenes, the scenery, and the plot as a whole—keeping it real.
Much of the information imparted through 72 Virgins required profound knowledge, some aspects of which were not within my grasp before moving the plot to the fore. In particular, story elements pertaining to law enforcement and intelligence agencies, types and attributes of chemical weapons, particular locations, places, and modes of worship, as well as aspects of science and technology that inspire modern spying techniques—were building blocks I brought into play, with the help of added insight from qualified mavens.
I was lucky to have generous people, connoisseurs in their particular field, who were enthusiastic about parting with their expert advice and more than willing to share some of their knowledge and information with me.
I wish to start by thanking Philip Edney from the FBI who guided me through the maze of the FBI building in Washington DC, providing me with a thorough analysis of the organizational structure and the roles played by the different divisions and the field offices. He also enlightened me on the methods, style and forms of cooperation with other security and intelligence agencies, thus keeping me honest.
I wish to thank my friend Motti, not his real name, from the Israeli Mossad who ran through stories, scenarios, culture, personalities and roles, typical of that legendary agency, thus making sure that I do not misrepresent it or its operating procedures.
On the chemical weapons and bomb making technology, I was briefed by Major Samuel Vitkin from the Engineering Unit of the Israeli Army. It was his humor-filled speaking style, encompassing sarcasm and weird but funny similes and metaphors, which not only helped me acquire a handle on the subject, but nonetheless, provided me with key attributes I employed while portraying Jerry, one of the main protagonists in the story.
My publisher’s team of experts, Zach Coddington, Ron D., Helen Smith, Sandy Shalton contributed to cover and book design, editing and production.
Oliver James was the most enthusiastic, charismatic and supportive person when it came to having the manuscript see the light outside my laptop. He loved the story from the get-go, promoted it as a suspenseful and intriguing read from start to finish, then invested his publishing company’s resources in having it published.
If there is one person whose contribution was above and beyond others, it is my dear friend, Dr. Ilan Halpern. His dedication, patience, and editing prowess helped me perk up an earlier draft. Not only did he help improve readability, he was also instrumental in identifying some obvious errors, which inevitably, squeezed through and snuck in, even when the guards were on duty.
My brother, Professor David Perry, was influential in helping me enhance one major plot-twist, and thus, added to the thrill that the story would offer the reader.
And of course, my wife, Shelly, I still consider marrying her—a momentous over-achievement; she was first to read and comment on the initial draft. She had been the reason I gathered the courage and braved the commitment necessary to persevere all the way through this undertaking. Her early feedback, enthusiasm and encouragement granted me the energy required for spending lonely hours (that she was enduring as well) in front of the computer, trying to conceive subplots, achieve perfect flow, carry out meaty character development, employ proper language and clever lines, all embedded in the terrorism-filled reality that is today’s world.
To all of you—my friends, colleagues, and family—I am eternally grateful.
Chapter 1
Sunday, October 27, 2002—Tel Aviv, Israel
It was noontime when the heaving bus entered the intersection across from the main entrance to the Dizengoff shopping mall in Tel Aviv. The cloudless blue skies painted a peaceful overture to an ordinary onset of another week. It was a beautiful autumn day. Dizengoff Street, one of the foremost symbols of the most vibrant city in Israel, home to many prestigious fashion designers, movie and theatre celebrities, authors and poets, as well as plain folk—was bursting with life. Office workers were out on their lunch break; shoppers were on the hunt for the usual bargains in and around the mall, and traffic was drawing near its customary gridlock that typified the first day of the working week in Israel.
The bus stopped at the traffic light, next to the main entrance to the mall, just ahead of King George Street. Then, in a flash, without warning, just as the traffic light was about to turn green, the sun turned dark. A Palestinian suicide bomber, sitting near the center of the bus, rose from his seat. His sad face cracked open in a sadistic smile; he looked up, filled his lungs, then shrieked, “Allahu Akbar!” (Allah is Greater (than any other God and every human VIP)) while igniting his explosives-filled belt.
The explosion went off inside the bus, blowing its top into smithereens, generating a massive fire throughout its interior. There were twenty-nine dead, all civilians, passengers and pedestrians, men, women, old, young, and younger. The enormous blast was heard throughout the city from the beachfront hotels to the Diamond Center in nearby Ramat Gan, and for a long, drawn out moment, the ordinary exuberance typifying life in this metropolis was brought to a standstill. The awful silence that followed the explosion was quickly interrupted by the screaming of urgent sirens. Ambulances and fire trucks converged on the scene as the local police force mobilized to cordon off the surrounding area.
Islamic University student, Abdullah Mansour from Gaza, the suicide bomber, was among the lifeless remains collected by the orange uniform-clad clean-up crew. One hour later, Mansour’s picture was revealed on Palestinian TV. His mother was proud; his older brother was energized; his recorded will was recited by the young Palestinian kids who would follow in his footsteps. Abdullah Mansour’s passage to Paradise was secured. It was paved with bloody and burnt corpses of innocent souls including his own—a prerequisite on the path to martyrdom. The moment he pulled the trigger was the happiest of his short life. Seventy-two virgins would be awaiting his arrival in heaven. They’d be nursing his wounds and nurturing him forever. His place next to Allah’s throne was now secured. He’d just become the latest martyr.
Chapter 2
Two days earlier—Gaza City
The few open stores in the Gold and Spice markets of the el-Daraj neighborhood were closing down early in preparation for the traditional Friday evening holiday prayer. The streets and alleys in the Gaza city center next to al-Omari mosque started filling with a massive crowd that was developing into an increasingly dense jamboree. Men wearing white and women dressed in black robes and white veils were rushing in from the nearby closed-down Antique and Gold market opposite the Pottery Quarter. There was still plenty of time, just about half an hour before the onset of the traditional evening prayer, but inside al-Omari, the largest mosque in Gaza city, there was no room left. Soldiers of Allah had already taken every spot.
Outside, in the backyard of the el-Zahra Secondary School, a two-story building that had been mistaken for Napoleon’s castle, children ended their soccer game prematurely, leaving their improvised cotton stuffed football behind. It would be there tomorrow; they’d be picking up where they left off.
The local television crew was bracing for an upcoming live broadcast. Satellite dishes were placed inside and outside the mosque, and television cameras were positioned on location ready to transmit a critical sermon and the corresponding reaction to it over the airwaves. The audio would be fed directly to several radio stations for a live show.
It was time. The muezzin’s call for the prayers service boomed out of the loud speakers positioned on top of the minaret. The traditional singing invitation included a special announcement confirming the scheduled and highly anticipated sermon by Dr. Ahmad Abu Halabiya, member of the Palestinian Authority appointed Fatwa Council and former acting Rector of the Islamic University in Gaza.
Out in the el-Zaytoon neighborhood, Abdullah Mansour, a third-year student at the Islamic University, was getting dressed following his customary Friday afternoon nap. He’d overslept. It was the only time during the week he could enjoy a genuine break. The two-bedroom apartment in the Southern part of the neighborhood housed eight family members. In addition to his parents and one grandmother, he had four siblings, one older brother and three younger sisters. They were all hanging around inside al-Omari mosque, their traditional Friday evening routine. Except his old, ailing grandmother was sitting in the kitchen, sipping from a freshly made cup of bitter sweet, cardamom-filled coffee.
Abdullah Mansour loved his grandmother. When he was growing up, she used to tell him stories about her home in Palestine, her parents, her siblings. He’d never met them, but he held them close in his thoughts. They were all martyrs, and he regularly imagined chatting with them, sharing cigarettes, sipping coffee together. One day he would walk in Jaffa, his grandmother’s hometown next to Tel Aviv, proud and free, after the predictable victory over the criminal Jews.
Mansour rubbed his eyes for a full minute. When they finally opened, the sight of the peeling light-blue paint on the ceiling above greeted his arrival. He always wondered about the gun shaped peelings. It must have been a divine communiqué. His professor at the Islamic University, Dr. Ahmad Abu Halabiya, taught him that Allah kept sending messages to every devout Muslim. The ones who were able to decipher them and act accordingly would be assured of a place in Paradise. Mansour recognized the peelings for what they were—a message from Allah, an undisputed one. He got up, sat on his bed for one more minute before strolling to the kitchen. His Grandmother was looking down at her cup of coffee. She didn’t raise her head to greet him. She was deep in thought, some of which sneaking out of her mouth as she uttered partial sentences between sips.
Mansour peeked out through the kitchen window watching the orange sun slowly sinking into the Mediterranean. One quick finger inside his nose for a final clean up, he reminded himself--I’d better hurry. He gave his dark curly hair a quick comb-out, his short spruce beard and heavy mustache—a fresh run through. He wouldn’t want to miss his mentor’s greatly anticipated sermon. His good looks, dark brown eyes, and his five-foot-nine-inch size couldn’t overcome the repelling powers of his appalling bad breath. It proclaimed his presence from ten feet away, a common condition in a society where dental hygiene was a rarity.
Mansour picked up his fully automatic AK-47 Kalashnikov, loaded the magazine, then held it in his left hand while feeling the trigger with his index finger. Satisfied, he moved two steps forward toward the bathroom. Lifting the gun in a picture-perfect posture, he took an admiring stare at the scratched mirror above the chipped sink next to the rusty toilet seat, then, resting the gun on the concrete floor, he emptied his bladder into the toilet. The rusty seat wouldn’t complain. Absorbing a few drops wouldn’t change its condition. He wiped his hand on his black jeans, then covered his head with his new red kaffiyeh (an Arab headdress), took one more admiring glimpse in the mirror, then charged through the graffiti-covered door into the narrow alley.
He turned around and started sprinting alongside the dense row of olive trees. His sweat was running down his neck wetting his white shirt. He could hardly hear the fading chorus of singing muezzins emanating from the other mosques surrounding him.
Mansour stole a final stare at the Martyrs’ cemetery with its marble columns where the names of some of the martyrs who had died in defense of the city had been engraved. He admired them and worshipped their final resting place in the Southern outskirts of the neighborhood. One day, his name would be engraved on a column just like these. His thoughts and focus were centered on the path to al-Omari mosque. As he crossed the street, he could already hear the unique voice of Dr. Ahmad Abu Halabiya’s oration throbbing through the loud speakers, wresting attention from every soul around him. Watching these people, he was gripped by the stillness of their bodies. They were all gazing up at the dimming skies, listening attentively to every word, nodding in acceptance, and echoing “Allahu Akbar!” (“God is Greater”) at the end of every phrase.
“Have no mercy on the Jews, Have no mercy on the Americans, no matter where they are, in any country. Fight them; kill those Jews and those Americans.”
“Allahu Akbar!” Mansour joined the chorus. “Allahu Akbar!”
“They’re all liars. Oh brother believers! They’ve butchered our children, orphaned them, widowed our women, desecrated our holy places and sacred sites. The Jews and the Americans—they’re the true terrorists; they’re the ones who must be butchered and killed…”
As the voice of Abu Halabiya reverberated through the streets, Mansour reiterated the mantra behind the crowd, “Allahu Akbar!” It was dark now. The orange colored sun had drowned inside the Mediterranean. The cloudless October skies were covered with shining bright stars, while the warm and humid air contributed to the smell of wet human sweat and body odor saturating the streets and the nearby alleys. Almost everyone around him was gazing up at the heavens in an ultimate effort to freeze the moment. There was nothing else but the thought of revenge, of hatred. It was utterly consuming.
Mansour came to an abrupt stop and listened to the words thundering out of the loud speakers.
“The path of Allah is to kill and be killed. Kill the Jews and their Christian allies. Kill the ones who unite against those who say, there’s no God but Allah and Muhammad is his messenger...”
Mansour was about to move forward in the direction of al-Omari mosque, but the human wall in front of him was too thick to make it through. He was only two blocks away, but the objective seemed beyond his reach. In his edginess, he pulled out his gun, raised it above his shoulders, then fired three shots into the open sky. The people in his immediate path turned around. A veiled woman took command, yelled orders to her neighbors who opened a narrow corridor for Mansour to walk through. He made it to the next block, but was unable to proceed. The human barricade was solidifying again.
Abu Halabia’s thundering voice kept booming. Mansour was getting agitated. He pulled his gun again, raised it as high as he could, then pressed the trigger for a long spray of bullets. The action had its impact; the adjoining mass managed to open a wide passageway around him, while the people in front of him backed off, parting the human sea just as Moses had done on route to the Promised Land.
Mansour was finally standing in front of al-Omari mosque. He could hear his teacher devoid of the electronics. He was living and breathing the discourse.
“Oh brother in belief! The Muslim loves death and martyrdom, just as the infidel loves life. The Muslim loves the Hereafter, just as the infidel loves this world. Oh brothers in belief! The beautiful brides, the seventy-two virgins in Paradise, are looking forward to your arrival. They’ll comfort your soul and slave to your needs. They welcome you, but they command a precious price and dowry. You must kill and be killed. Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!”
As Mansour was rushing up the stairs to the door of the Great al-Omari mosque, two guards of the Hamas local militia stopped him. After confiscating his gun, conducting a thorough body search, and scrutinizing his intentions, they led him inside and told him to wait in front of the door. There was hardly any room left around his temporary parking spot. Old shoes, new shoes, different color shoes—they were all arranged neatly near the vestibule where he stood waiting. Mansour watched the packed grounds inside. He examined the sea of white robes and bare feet, all cheering, talking politics, yelling, cursing, praising Allah. His thoughts were interrupted by a heavy squeeze on the back of his neck. He turned around. One of the guards placed his hand on Mansour’s shoulder, then led him to a room downstairs in the basement.
He was standing face to face in the presence of the notorious local Hamas Captain, Abu Musa. Mansour had never before seen the face or even a photo of the great leader. All pictures he’d seen displayed a masked head. This time he noticed the thick scar running from Abu Musa’s left ear down to his left jaw. Even the dense black curly beard couldn’t conceal the memento that hid behind it and wrapped a fascinating story inside its past.
“You’ll receive your instructions tomorrow,” Abu Musa declared. “You’ll come here to the mosque, and we’ll take you away. Don’t say a word to anyone. Don’t say good-bye to anyone. You’ll say good-bye in a videotaped message. Your family will be proud of you. Your nation will be proud of you. Your soul will enjoy Paradise forever. When you wake up in the morning, wash yourself and shave your face and your body. Wear your best clothes. You’re going to a heavenly wedding. Remember, seventy-two virgins are awaiting your arrival.”
They shook hands, kissed on both cheeks; Mansour took one more look at his new mentor. He was incapable of making out the eyes behind the dark sunglasses, nor could he acquire a firm memory of the face. The cigar smoke Abu Musa blew in Mansour’s direction thwarted any attempt to catch a clear view.
It wasn’t vital. Mansour had had his moment on the path to paradise. He was all geared up. He was on a mission from Allah, for Allah. He would become a martyr. He would rejoice in the company of seventy-two virgins. Yes, he would. That’s what they told him. That was what he believed.
***
On October 27, two days after the illustrious sermon in the Great al-Omari mosque in Gaza, following Abdullah Mansour’s suicide bombing at the heart of Tel Aviv, Abu Musa didn’t return home. The notorious Hamas leader in the Gaza region, the mastermind behind the bombing, went into hiding. Abu Musa was a marked man, but he wasn’t yet ready to die. He chose to delay martyrdom for as long as he could.
In Tel Aviv, Dan Carmel, the Israeli Mossad Director in charge of counter-terrorism strategy, swore to his new life mission; he would see to it that Abu Musa would reach his paradise destination and visit with his seventy-two virgins, sooner rather than later.
Sunday, October 27, 2002—Tel Aviv, Israel
It was noontime when the heaving bus entered the intersection across from the main entrance to the Dizengoff shopping mall in Tel Aviv. The cloudless blue skies painted a peaceful overture to an ordinary onset of another week. It was a beautiful autumn day. Dizengoff Street, one of the foremost symbols of the most vibrant city in Israel, home to many prestigious fashion designers, movie and theatre celebrities, authors and poets, as well as plain folk—was bursting with life. Office workers were out on their lunch break; shoppers were on the hunt for the usual bargains in and around the mall, and traffic was drawing near its customary gridlock that typified the first day of the working week in Israel.
The bus stopped at the traffic light, next to the main entrance to the mall, just ahead of King George Street. Then, in a flash, without warning, just as the traffic light was about to turn green, the sun turned dark. A Palestinian suicide bomber, sitting near the center of the bus, rose from his seat. His sad face cracked open in a sadistic smile; he looked up, filled his lungs, then shrieked, “Allahu Akbar!” (Allah is Greater (than any other God and every human VIP)) while igniting his explosives-filled belt.
The explosion went off inside the bus, blowing its top into smithereens, generating a massive fire throughout its interior. There were twenty-nine dead, all civilians, passengers and pedestrians, men, women, old, young, and younger. The enormous blast was heard throughout the city from the beachfront hotels to the Diamond Center in nearby Ramat Gan, and for a long, drawn out moment, the ordinary exuberance typifying life in this metropolis was brought to a standstill. The awful silence that followed the explosion was quickly interrupted by the screaming of urgent sirens. Ambulances and fire trucks converged on the scene as the local police force mobilized to cordon off the surrounding area.
Islamic University student, Abdullah Mansour from Gaza, the suicide bomber, was among the lifeless remains collected by the orange uniform-clad clean-up crew. One hour later, Mansour’s picture was revealed on Palestinian TV. His mother was proud; his older brother was energized; his recorded will was recited by the young Palestinian kids who would follow in his footsteps. Abdullah Mansour’s passage to Paradise was secured. It was paved with bloody and burnt corpses of innocent souls including his own—a prerequisite on the path to martyrdom. The moment he pulled the trigger was the happiest of his short life. Seventy-two virgins would be awaiting his arrival in heaven. They’d be nursing his wounds and nurturing him forever. His place next to Allah’s throne was now secured. He’d just become the latest martyr.
Chapter 2
Two days earlier—Gaza City
The few open stores in the Gold and Spice markets of the el-Daraj neighborhood were closing down early in preparation for the traditional Friday evening holiday prayer. The streets and alleys in the Gaza city center next to al-Omari mosque started filling with a massive crowd that was developing into an increasingly dense jamboree. Men wearing white and women dressed in black robes and white veils were rushing in from the nearby closed-down Antique and Gold market opposite the Pottery Quarter. There was still plenty of time, just about half an hour before the onset of the traditional evening prayer, but inside al-Omari, the largest mosque in Gaza city, there was no room left. Soldiers of Allah had already taken every spot.
Outside, in the backyard of the el-Zahra Secondary School, a two-story building that had been mistaken for Napoleon’s castle, children ended their soccer game prematurely, leaving their improvised cotton stuffed football behind. It would be there tomorrow; they’d be picking up where they left off.
The local television crew was bracing for an upcoming live broadcast. Satellite dishes were placed inside and outside the mosque, and television cameras were positioned on location ready to transmit a critical sermon and the corresponding reaction to it over the airwaves. The audio would be fed directly to several radio stations for a live show.
It was time. The muezzin’s call for the prayers service boomed out of the loud speakers positioned on top of the minaret. The traditional singing invitation included a special announcement confirming the scheduled and highly anticipated sermon by Dr. Ahmad Abu Halabiya, member of the Palestinian Authority appointed Fatwa Council and former acting Rector of the Islamic University in Gaza.
Out in the el-Zaytoon neighborhood, Abdullah Mansour, a third-year student at the Islamic University, was getting dressed following his customary Friday afternoon nap. He’d overslept. It was the only time during the week he could enjoy a genuine break. The two-bedroom apartment in the Southern part of the neighborhood housed eight family members. In addition to his parents and one grandmother, he had four siblings, one older brother and three younger sisters. They were all hanging around inside al-Omari mosque, their traditional Friday evening routine. Except his old, ailing grandmother was sitting in the kitchen, sipping from a freshly made cup of bitter sweet, cardamom-filled coffee.
Abdullah Mansour loved his grandmother. When he was growing up, she used to tell him stories about her home in Palestine, her parents, her siblings. He’d never met them, but he held them close in his thoughts. They were all martyrs, and he regularly imagined chatting with them, sharing cigarettes, sipping coffee together. One day he would walk in Jaffa, his grandmother’s hometown next to Tel Aviv, proud and free, after the predictable victory over the criminal Jews.
Mansour rubbed his eyes for a full minute. When they finally opened, the sight of the peeling light-blue paint on the ceiling above greeted his arrival. He always wondered about the gun shaped peelings. It must have been a divine communiqué. His professor at the Islamic University, Dr. Ahmad Abu Halabiya, taught him that Allah kept sending messages to every devout Muslim. The ones who were able to decipher them and act accordingly would be assured of a place in Paradise. Mansour recognized the peelings for what they were—a message from Allah, an undisputed one. He got up, sat on his bed for one more minute before strolling to the kitchen. His Grandmother was looking down at her cup of coffee. She didn’t raise her head to greet him. She was deep in thought, some of which sneaking out of her mouth as she uttered partial sentences between sips.
Mansour peeked out through the kitchen window watching the orange sun slowly sinking into the Mediterranean. One quick finger inside his nose for a final clean up, he reminded himself--I’d better hurry. He gave his dark curly hair a quick comb-out, his short spruce beard and heavy mustache—a fresh run through. He wouldn’t want to miss his mentor’s greatly anticipated sermon. His good looks, dark brown eyes, and his five-foot-nine-inch size couldn’t overcome the repelling powers of his appalling bad breath. It proclaimed his presence from ten feet away, a common condition in a society where dental hygiene was a rarity.
Mansour picked up his fully automatic AK-47 Kalashnikov, loaded the magazine, then held it in his left hand while feeling the trigger with his index finger. Satisfied, he moved two steps forward toward the bathroom. Lifting the gun in a picture-perfect posture, he took an admiring stare at the scratched mirror above the chipped sink next to the rusty toilet seat, then, resting the gun on the concrete floor, he emptied his bladder into the toilet. The rusty seat wouldn’t complain. Absorbing a few drops wouldn’t change its condition. He wiped his hand on his black jeans, then covered his head with his new red kaffiyeh (an Arab headdress), took one more admiring glimpse in the mirror, then charged through the graffiti-covered door into the narrow alley.
He turned around and started sprinting alongside the dense row of olive trees. His sweat was running down his neck wetting his white shirt. He could hardly hear the fading chorus of singing muezzins emanating from the other mosques surrounding him.
Mansour stole a final stare at the Martyrs’ cemetery with its marble columns where the names of some of the martyrs who had died in defense of the city had been engraved. He admired them and worshipped their final resting place in the Southern outskirts of the neighborhood. One day, his name would be engraved on a column just like these. His thoughts and focus were centered on the path to al-Omari mosque. As he crossed the street, he could already hear the unique voice of Dr. Ahmad Abu Halabiya’s oration throbbing through the loud speakers, wresting attention from every soul around him. Watching these people, he was gripped by the stillness of their bodies. They were all gazing up at the dimming skies, listening attentively to every word, nodding in acceptance, and echoing “Allahu Akbar!” (“God is Greater”) at the end of every phrase.
“Have no mercy on the Jews, Have no mercy on the Americans, no matter where they are, in any country. Fight them; kill those Jews and those Americans.”
“Allahu Akbar!” Mansour joined the chorus. “Allahu Akbar!”
“They’re all liars. Oh brother believers! They’ve butchered our children, orphaned them, widowed our women, desecrated our holy places and sacred sites. The Jews and the Americans—they’re the true terrorists; they’re the ones who must be butchered and killed…”
As the voice of Abu Halabiya reverberated through the streets, Mansour reiterated the mantra behind the crowd, “Allahu Akbar!” It was dark now. The orange colored sun had drowned inside the Mediterranean. The cloudless October skies were covered with shining bright stars, while the warm and humid air contributed to the smell of wet human sweat and body odor saturating the streets and the nearby alleys. Almost everyone around him was gazing up at the heavens in an ultimate effort to freeze the moment. There was nothing else but the thought of revenge, of hatred. It was utterly consuming.
Mansour came to an abrupt stop and listened to the words thundering out of the loud speakers.
“The path of Allah is to kill and be killed. Kill the Jews and their Christian allies. Kill the ones who unite against those who say, there’s no God but Allah and Muhammad is his messenger...”
Mansour was about to move forward in the direction of al-Omari mosque, but the human wall in front of him was too thick to make it through. He was only two blocks away, but the objective seemed beyond his reach. In his edginess, he pulled out his gun, raised it above his shoulders, then fired three shots into the open sky. The people in his immediate path turned around. A veiled woman took command, yelled orders to her neighbors who opened a narrow corridor for Mansour to walk through. He made it to the next block, but was unable to proceed. The human barricade was solidifying again.
Abu Halabia’s thundering voice kept booming. Mansour was getting agitated. He pulled his gun again, raised it as high as he could, then pressed the trigger for a long spray of bullets. The action had its impact; the adjoining mass managed to open a wide passageway around him, while the people in front of him backed off, parting the human sea just as Moses had done on route to the Promised Land.
Mansour was finally standing in front of al-Omari mosque. He could hear his teacher devoid of the electronics. He was living and breathing the discourse.
“Oh brother in belief! The Muslim loves death and martyrdom, just as the infidel loves life. The Muslim loves the Hereafter, just as the infidel loves this world. Oh brothers in belief! The beautiful brides, the seventy-two virgins in Paradise, are looking forward to your arrival. They’ll comfort your soul and slave to your needs. They welcome you, but they command a precious price and dowry. You must kill and be killed. Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!”
As Mansour was rushing up the stairs to the door of the Great al-Omari mosque, two guards of the Hamas local militia stopped him. After confiscating his gun, conducting a thorough body search, and scrutinizing his intentions, they led him inside and told him to wait in front of the door. There was hardly any room left around his temporary parking spot. Old shoes, new shoes, different color shoes—they were all arranged neatly near the vestibule where he stood waiting. Mansour watched the packed grounds inside. He examined the sea of white robes and bare feet, all cheering, talking politics, yelling, cursing, praising Allah. His thoughts were interrupted by a heavy squeeze on the back of his neck. He turned around. One of the guards placed his hand on Mansour’s shoulder, then led him to a room downstairs in the basement.
He was standing face to face in the presence of the notorious local Hamas Captain, Abu Musa. Mansour had never before seen the face or even a photo of the great leader. All pictures he’d seen displayed a masked head. This time he noticed the thick scar running from Abu Musa’s left ear down to his left jaw. Even the dense black curly beard couldn’t conceal the memento that hid behind it and wrapped a fascinating story inside its past.
“You’ll receive your instructions tomorrow,” Abu Musa declared. “You’ll come here to the mosque, and we’ll take you away. Don’t say a word to anyone. Don’t say good-bye to anyone. You’ll say good-bye in a videotaped message. Your family will be proud of you. Your nation will be proud of you. Your soul will enjoy Paradise forever. When you wake up in the morning, wash yourself and shave your face and your body. Wear your best clothes. You’re going to a heavenly wedding. Remember, seventy-two virgins are awaiting your arrival.”
They shook hands, kissed on both cheeks; Mansour took one more look at his new mentor. He was incapable of making out the eyes behind the dark sunglasses, nor could he acquire a firm memory of the face. The cigar smoke Abu Musa blew in Mansour’s direction thwarted any attempt to catch a clear view.
It wasn’t vital. Mansour had had his moment on the path to paradise. He was all geared up. He was on a mission from Allah, for Allah. He would become a martyr. He would rejoice in the company of seventy-two virgins. Yes, he would. That’s what they told him. That was what he believed.
***
On October 27, two days after the illustrious sermon in the Great al-Omari mosque in Gaza, following Abdullah Mansour’s suicide bombing at the heart of Tel Aviv, Abu Musa didn’t return home. The notorious Hamas leader in the Gaza region, the mastermind behind the bombing, went into hiding. Abu Musa was a marked man, but he wasn’t yet ready to die. He chose to delay martyrdom for as long as he could.
In Tel Aviv, Dan Carmel, the Israeli Mossad Director in charge of counter-terrorism strategy, swore to his new life mission; he would see to it that Abu Musa would reach his paradise destination and visit with his seventy-two virgins, sooner rather than later.
