A Spy in Exile

BRUSSELS, FEBRUARY 9, 2015

To the guards sitting in the front of the van, the scene that unfolded before their eyes appeared to have come straight out of a horror film. A thin figure, wearing a black gas mask, came at them from out of nowhere. They were still struggling to figure out how they had ended up in a narrow dead-end street, with their path blocked by large yellow plastic barriers, and behind the barriers a deep trench dug into the road. The approaching figure had both its hands gripped around the handle of a pistol fitted with a silencer. They heard two soft pops and felt the front end of the vehicle sink as its two front tires deflated. The next bullet shattered the windshield and passed between them. The figure then pulled a hand grenade from the pocket of its coat, and a second one, too, before throwing them both into the cabin from very close range. The guards were convinced they were done for, that they were about to be blown into a million pieces. But no. One of the grenades slammed them with a painful ear-shattering noise, along with a bright and blinding flash of light. They felt the shockwave in their ears and their bodies froze. The second grenade emitted a steady stream of gas that immediately hampered their breathing, causing extreme pain to their eyes at the same time. They were no longer able to see the thin figure, which had moved around to the rear of the vehicle.

Ya’ara reached into her coat pocket and retrieved a rectangular object, the size of a Galaxy 6 cellphone. She fixed the device to the heavy lock that secured the van’s two back doors and knelt down alongside the vehicle. The sound of a dull explosion rang out and the doors flew open, with one almost ripped off its hinges. Goran had added a little spice to the charge, she thought with a smile. The back of the van contained three prisoners, their wrists and ankles shackled. She recognized Osama Hamdan immediately. She could see the looks of fear and bewilderment on the faces of the prisoners. Had someone come to rescue them? To free them from the production line of the Belgian justice system? To kill them? Who had sent this slender warrior, wrapped in a large coat, with its face hidden by a monstrous mask? Ya’ara lifted the mask so that she could ask, in a calm and clear voice, in French: “Are you Osama Hamdan?” He nodded, extremely surprised that someone had come to his rescue. They hadn’t planned this part of the operation in advance. Only the murder at the synagogue.

Ya’ara repeated her question, and added: “Answer out loud.”

“Yes, it’s me,” he responded, his voice thick and strangled.

“See you in hell,” she spat back with intense scorn and hatred, squeezing the trigger of her pistol three times in succession. The three bullets struck him in the face, ripping it to shreds, with particles of brain and bone splattering against the interior of the van and over the other two prisoners, who fell to their knees. A dark, wet patch stained the trousers of one of them. His friend covered his face with his hands and his entire body was trembling.

At the same time, the front doors of the vehicle opened and the two prison guards stumbled out, the one coughing, with tears streaming from his eyes, the other with his hands over his ears. The stun grenade must have ruptured his left eardrum—Ya’ara could see blood trickling from his ear down to his neck. One of the guards, the driver, still coughing and with mucus pouring from his nose, started to reach for the pistol in his belt. Ya’ara stared at him coldly through the visor of her gas mask, which she had replaced after seeing Hamdan blown to bits by the bullets she had fired into his head. She wasn’t sure if the guard could see her eyes, but he could certainly see the gun in her hand. The two shots she fired in the direction of his legs struck the road just inches from his feet, sending small pieces of asphalt flying toward him. The message was clear. I don’t want to harm you, but I am proficient enough with this weapon to do it easily. One threatening move and the next bullet will be in your neck, your jaw, either of your eyes I choose.

The guard cautiously moved his hand away from his gun holster, and the near-invisible and very slight movement of his eyes seemed to say: Got you, there’s no need for anyone else to be killed here.

Ya’ara backed away slowly, before turning suddenly into a narrow alley and heading down a steep staircase leading to a one-way road that wound up the hill toward Louise Square. She could see the immense structure of the courthouse dominating the landscape, casting a giant shadow. Making her way down the stairs, she pulled out a department store shopping bag from her coat pocket, slipped the gas mask off her head in one smooth movement, shook out her fair hair, which was tied in a ponytail, and stuffed the mask into the bag. The pistol went back into her pocket. Batsheva was behind the wheel of the black Opel Corsa that was parked, with its engine running, exactly opposite the stairs Ya’ara came down in light, quick bounds. She signaled, as required, and was already pulling away from the curb before Ya’ara had closed the door. “Drive slowly,” Ya’ara instructed her. “We have all the time in the world.” Cleary the overstatement of the year, but Batsheva smiled at her and skillfully maneuvered the car into traffic.