10/8/97

Spy vs. spies

    It was a dangerous mission. No one volunteered. No one but me. Only a nut would spy on spies. So it had to be me.
    I could've been really brave and staked out Jibril Rajoub's HQ. I took stock of my life, and settled for the next best thing: the Shin Bet.
    One morning recently, I drove up to a mysterious building Somewhere In Israel, brazenly parked right outside the front door, unsheathed my trusty old Parker and, well, this is what I witnessed...
10:20: Stakeout begins. Targeted building is non-descript: Bars on the windows, a wall, a fence, a gate with an intercom. Could be any place, anywhere. No name on the gate.
    Four garbage bins stand innocuously outside. I slip out of the car, look left, look right, and peek in them. I make a note of the smell (smelly). The contents: remains of food; an empty diaper package (but of course! Who would suspect a baby agent? Besides, they're impossible to interrogate), bits and pieces of garden-variety detritus. And paydirt: a large pink bag full of cross-shredded paper. If I had the guts I'd scoop it out and pack it into the car. I don't have the guts.
10:22: Getting restless. Nothing happening. The neighbors: what's it like to live across the street from a spy agency? They've put up a high wall for privacy. Obviously. All the shutters are closed -- except for one. Great place to plant a double agent to surveil the Shin Bet.
10:24: Something's happening! Behind the wall, a man -- gray-haired, grim-looking, est. mid-50s -- crosses the grounds from right to left, disappears. Aha.
10:26: Gray-haired man reappears. Crosses the grounds from left to right. Not sure why.
10:29: The door opens! The door opens! Plump young woman exits. White blouse, black bag. Gets into red car. Drives away. A spy? Could be.
10:31: Large bee tries to penetrate fence. Can't. Makes you wonder, no?
10:32: Plumper woman, 40s, black blouse, red pants, exits. Turns right, walks down the street. Out to snare an arch-enemy of the State? Could be.
10:33: Lady, pink blouse, approaches along the sidewalk. A prisoner is chained to her. Sorry. It's a dog. She passes. Could be a neighbor walking her dog. Or a spy dressed like a neighbor walking her dog.
10:34: Two men, 30s, wearing kipot, exit. One of them (white short-sleeved shirt) looks at me. Yikes! I am noticed. He turns right. I glance through my rear-view mirror (good thing I brought that along). He looks at me again. Could be a spy. Could be he's thinking the same about me.
10:35: Plumper lady returns: still in her 40s, still with the black blouse and red pants, but now carrying something ... something white. Could be yogurt. God, I love this work!
10:36: Balding man in green shirt exits. Does not turn left or right. Comes to me. Gevalt. Maybe he wants to ask directions? No. Asks who I am, what the hell I'm doing there. Not friendly. I realize too late I'm not wearing my dark specs. My cover blown, I tell him the truth (I'm a lousy liar, thus a lousy spy). I pull out my business card, he takes it, asks if he can keep it. I'm going to say no?
10:45: For nine minutes since my interrogation, no one has entered or exited. I presume entire spy network has been alerted. Check rooftops for sharpshooters, don't notice any. Certainly they're photographing me (damn, wish I'd had the car washed), putting my name through a computer check. What if they don't find anything?
10:46: Cat emerges from north end of compound. Looks left, looks right. Suspicious. Yawns. Hops back into compound.
10:49: Hear a noise from the building. A man, clearing his throat. Could be he's a spy passing a coded message. Or maybe he just has to clear his throat.
10:50: White van pulls up, parks in front of me. License plate 57-399-07 (not the real number). I figure this is it, the back doors are gonna open and they're gonna blow me outta there. Nice and neat. Sure enough, back doors open. No howitzers or missile launchers. Melons, apricots, trays of hot food. Hmm. Could be spies are getting hungry. (So am I, but they don't invite me.) Burly guy, jeans, black T-shirt, shleps food into bldg.
10:51: Burly guy (definitely a hit man) exits with scowling man in green shirt. Green shirt comes to me again, asks what I'm doing there. I remind him. He smiles. That worries me. Then he says "someone will be here shortly to ask you a few questions." Good. I got a coupla questions myself.
10:57: Long-haired skinny man comes out with three bags of garbage. Food garbage. Busty blonde lopes by, he makes gurgling noise at her, she nods back. They are acquainted.
10:58: Skinny man helps bring in food from van. Picks up large plastic container. Burly guy says: "Careful, it's hot soup." Aha. So the Shin Bet eats soup for lunch.
11:00: Young, clean-cut man comes to say hello. Shows me his police ID card. Agent Y (not his real name) explains they're not very happy about me being there. No kidding. "We're doing vital work, you understand. I can't stop you from sitting here, but I wouldn't want you to compromise our need for secrecy, I wouldn't want anyone in this building hurt by what you write." He's earnest, direct, affable. Makes me feel like a putz. I assure him my intentions are harmless. He says he trusts The Jerusalem Post. Doesn't read it, though (crosses my mind to offer him a subscription discount). I figure what the hell, ask him some questions. Sonofagun, he answers them: the building belongs to the Ministry of Defense. Corroborating my info, this is, he reveals, the Shin Bet. Antiterrorism HQ. I pretend not to be impressed, coolly ask to be let in. He smiles, says he thought I'd ask, says no. (I presume because they're getting ready for lunch.) We shake hands.
11:07: Grayhaired man emerges with two bags of garbage.  Lady enters. Burly guy and skinny man exit. Grayhair enters. With all this coming and going, I could've slipped in unnoticed. An idiot I'm not.
11:08: Skinny, burly drive off in van. Could be they're spies. Or caterers.
11:09: Cop car approaches. I am sweating. Cop car passes. Sweat dries up.
11:12: Man in uniform exits. With more garbage. (Whatever else they do here, they produce a lot of garbage.)
11:14: Pretty woman, blue dress, enters. Could be she's one of those sexy lures you see in spy movies. Maybe she's been assigned to entice me to a secluded spot. (Now I really wish I'd had the car washed.)
11:15: Black Toyota, 39-467-88, parks. (Not the real color, make or license number.) Man gets out. Wiry, furtive; dark specs, black tik jemzbond. Can't be a spy: looks too much like he's trying to look like one.
11:19: Oriental man, 70s, with bleached-blonde woman, mid-50s, enter. They look like a normal, everyday Israeli couple. Maybe they are.
11:21: Balding husky man with tik jemzbond, plus young man, blue polo shirt, carrying nothing, enter. Interesting. 
11:22: Agent Y exits building. My pal. I say, "Jeez, lotta people coming in and out of there." Seems there's a problem. Me. "I spoke with my supervisor, and he asked me to ask you to leave. [Wait a minute. Didn't he admit earlier that he can't force me to leave?] You're not allowed to be here. I'm sorry, if you don't leave I'll have to call the police to remove you." I decide it's better not to piss off both the Shin Bet and the police. I rev up the ol' Renault (it starts, thank God), we shake hands again. Analyzing the situation, I figure out why I'm sent away: they need the parking place.
11:26: The jig is up. I drive off, mission accomplished. I leave, confident the Jewish State is in good hands.
Memo to the enemy -- if you're reading this, you know who you are. Do not attempt to locate said building: it is carefully camouflaged to look like a typical Israeli apartment block. Do not attempt to identify anyone mentioned in this report: it is hopeless. They are all carefully camouflaged to look like typical Israelis. Do not attempt to kidnap and/or torture me: I am writing this under an assumed name, the photo at the top is fake, and in any case, you cannot make me talk. Well, certainly not in Arabic. This page will self-shred in five seconds. Four ... three ... two ... one ...

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