Chapter 7

Two days later, Yael was staring at the three men standing around my table in the hotel restaurant. “Joshua, what –”

“They won’t be dining with me.”

She took a breath, recovering her composure, and straightened her back. “Of course, sir. What would you like this evening?”

After Yael left with my order, two short encrypted messages popped up on my phone. The first reported that all of Shin Bet records of me had been purged, down to erasing the digital backups of the copies of the backups. All physical files had been fed into the shredders in the basement of the Arab Department.

The second confirmed that all of the bugs had been removed from Yael’s apartment and my room at the hotel.

Living with an assigned personal protective detail was deeply strange, akin to going through the day with a permanent set of highly coordinated, heavily armed dance partners. Every man in the team moved when I did, orbiting around me at a constant distance, always looking outwards. Fresh agents would circle in every two hours, allowing each to maintain a constant state of vigilance.

A minimum of two agents ran with me each morning along the beach, while another team trailed slowly in a van. I was rarely alone. Fortunately, the agents were extremely discreet; each was also completely loyal, after a brief exposure to my voice.

I spent the rest of the day rolling up the rogue Shin Bet cell, speaking to everyone in the agency who had ever heard my name. By evening the entire Arab Department was effectively mine.

At Yael’s apartment late that night, her fingers stroking my back after an hour of lovemaking, she finally broached the subject. “Joshua. What you’re doing. It’s dangerous enough to need personal security?”

“It can be.”

She hugged my side. “Please be safe.”

I embraced her in the darkness. “I will.”

Ignore religion. Take away politics. Fundamentally, everything in Israel came down to land and water.

The stroke of a pen could make three million Palestinians new citizens of an integrated Israel. I could have forced it, declared victory, and walked away. But doing so would leave every resource and service in the country instantly overwhelmed, crashing the economy in six months ... assuming it wasn’t riven by war first.

Everything had to be built up before Gaza or the West Bank could be merged, and before they could contribute any significant money to development. I met with the World Bank, the IDF, and the G20, securing loans and donations, selling them on the benefits of peace, commanding people when I had to. Worked with experts to improve budgets. Closed corporate loopholes and promoted paying taxes as a patriotic act. Improved revenues, commissioned feasibility studies. And began to build.

“I’ve got good news and bad.”

“Oh?” Yael sat sideways on the seat of her moped, long legs outstretched, looking out over the view from the port of Jaffa.

The site we were standing on had been occupied for at least 10,000 years. Solomon had used the natural harbour before us to bring in cedars for the first Temple; Alexander the Great had stationed troops here. The city had been fought over by Romans, Egyptians, Turks and Crusaders. History here was sedimentary, old and new in constant contact with each other.

“The good news – well, I think it’s good news – is that I’m staying longer. A lot longer, I think.”

Yael smiled. “How long?”

“I’m not sure. Probably several years. Things here ... well, they’re more complicated than I ever imagined.” Her smile grew wider. “The bad news is that I’ll be moving out of the Royal. It no longer has room for everything – and everyone – I need.”

“Oh.” Yael’s mouth formed a moue.

“The other good news ... well, that’s behind you.”

Yael frowned and turned to look. Still frowning, turned back to me. Moment by moment, slow realisation dawned on her face. “Joshua ... are you saying this is yours?”

“It is. Well, half of it, anyway.”

She stood up off the bike. Crossed her arms over her chest. Stared. “Al tezayen li et hasechel,”

“I am not fucking with you, I promise. Come on.”

I took her through the front doors and up the stairs.

The duplex was entirely designed in smooth, flat planes: floor-to-ceiling windows, marble floors, steel, handless drawers. Every room had an uninterrupted view of the Mediterranean.

I felt Angelina’s admonition in every step. The house was indulgent. But it was also safe. The glass had been upgraded with ballistic protection; the location made it difficult to attack from any side.

“It’s incredible,” Yael said. We were standing on the rooftop patio five floors up, looking at the ocean, two silent Shin Bet agents on either side.

“I’m glad you like it.” I took a breath. “If you were interested ... I mean, if you wanted to ... I’d very much like it ... if you moved in.”

Yael looked at me wide-eyed. “Joshua. I –”

“I know it’s soon,” I blurted. “We’ve only been together three months. But I want you here.”

I could see the indecision in her eyes. I desperately wanted to make my words a command. It would be better for her, I told myself. Safer.

But I’d never use my voice on Yael. I loved her.

She looked around and took my hand. “Come with me.” Led me over to a pair of recliners. Sat opposite me.

“Joshua,” she said after a moment. “I’m flattered. But I know what first love is like. I wonder sometimes if – well, if you should be seeing other people.”

I felt ice settle in my stomach. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“No. No!” she lanced forward, hugging my shoulders. “Not in the tiniest bit. But what you have, what you’re offering ... it’s all too much for me. I worry that I’m getting it because I’m here, because I’m your first: you don’t have anything else to compare to.”

“But it’s not for you,” I argued. “I mean, not entirely. I need a place to work from, after all.”

She squeezed my hand. “That’s sweet. And it’s almost completely true.” She paused. “Of course it’s tempting. I mean, who wouldn’t be?” She gestured towards the ocean. “And I will think about it, truly. But I couldn’t consider moving in until at least one thing happens.”

“What?”

“Meeting my parents.” She caught my eyes. “I’ve been dodging questions from them about you for months. It’s overdue.”

“Ah.” I thought about it for a moment. “Alright.”

She smiled. “Really? You’re sure? My father can be ... kind of intimidating.”

“Yes.” I clasped her hand. “Like you said. It’s overdue.”

Clunk.

I looked up from my laptop, frowning.

Thok. Clunk.

The booms coming through the roof of the Jeep sounded like the first moments of a hailstorm. But that was impossible in the dusty September streets of Gaza.

I saw something blur at the window and bounce off. I was thrown back in the seat as the vehicle surged, the convoy taking off through the street.

“Yakob?” I turned to the Shin Bet lead agent beside me.

“Stones,” he said, one hand on his assault rifle, index finger extended just above the trigger guard.

There was a much harder hit on the window beside me, spider-webbing the glass.

“Small-arms fire.” Suddenly I was pushed down into the seat well, the laptop bent underneath me, as Yakob yelled. “Go! Go!”

It was thirty seconds to the new Gaza administrative headquarters, a set of low buildings near the sea, deliberately humble and simple in design. I could see crowds swelling long before we reached the gate, pushing against the barriers. No signs, no uniforms, no coordinated chants. This was a sudden, spontaneous reaction to something.

The convoy did not slow down as it approached the facility; the gate was only just drawn back in time, and closed immediately after the last car had passed.

Descending into underground parking, we moved quickly towards the nerve center of the building cluster, passing hallways still in the process of being finished, tarps and scaffolding everywhere.

Wide, scared eyes looked at us as we entered the situation room. Most of the computers were still half-assembled, but enough screens were up to show the flow of bodies circling the facility, angry mouths opening and closing.

‘Word of the peace process has leaked out,” an administrator said. “The streets of Gaza are rioting. There are reports of desertion from the Brigade.”

I sighed. None of this would be happening if you had not told Palestinians that Israel was the devil incarnate for the last 60 years, I wanted to say. But that would not be helpful now.

“How many rioters? From where?”

“Perhaps ten thousand at the moment, but growing steadily. We’re not sure where from.” He shrugged.

“Alright. What has our response been?”

“None.” A minister said. “We – we were waiting for you.”

I sighed again, internally this time. My time in Israel and Palestine had shown that people subjected to constant command often lost the ability to respond to new situations; maintaining a balance between getting things done and turning people into drones was a constant challenge.

“Alright,” I said. “I’ll need a moment.” I retreated to an empty office to think.

Gazans had the ability to riot because they were unemployed: almost half of them were out of work. Construction of this facility for the new government had used only a few hundred labourers for five months; if it was one thing the Strip new how to do well, it was to build buildings cheap and fast.

The very fact that the government center could be constructed spoke to a new confidence: Israel would not be bombing Gaza under my watch. But the people didn’t have that. They saw their politicians, previously virulently opposed to the very concept of Israel, now making overtures to their mortal enemy. The very idea of rapprochement was fearful to them.

What could they gain now that would distract them from the terrifying prospect of peace?

I tapped the phone in my pocket, thinking. It had been a week since I’d talked to the General. The after-effects of command might remain strong enough, if the cell line remained clear.

I stood up and closed the door to the office. Brought out the phone, slid through the contact list and hit a number.

“General Idod, please. Urgent.” I dropped my voice, keeping it in tone. “General. Do you recall our discussion about the Gaza buffer zone? Yes. I need you to put that policy change in now. Yes. Tomorrow.”

“I know you don’t have authorisation. I’ll have that for you within the hour. Yes, of course. I’ll follow through with the border guards personally. Yes, the maritime zone too. Thank you.” I ended the call, walked back into the center of the facility.

“I need media coordination, fisheries, farming and land development.”

“The Minister for Land Development isn’t here,” someone said apologetically. “He says he can’t get out of his home.”

“His under-secretary, then.”

In a conference room with bare hanging bulbs, I shared the plan.

“Tomorrow, Israel will be removing the 200 meter buffer zone from inside the Gaza border, and extending the maritime border out to the eight nautical miles agreed under Oslo.”

All the faces around the table looked at me with astonishment. Media responded first. “The populace won’t believe that. They’ll assume they will be shot as soon as they approach the fence.”