The Watchmans File

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Cancel reply Your email address will not be published. I TecMint :. As Ken Doan, I thought I was typing all kinds of What is the difference between using a blacklist with Squid Proxy The thing with rdfind is that it's not working recursively. Ed had first met Ben-David when he was researching a story about Hamas and arms smuggling from Egypt. It was a tale the Mossad wanted to get out, and Ben-David was their acknowledged expert. He provided enough nuggets about the radical Palestinians to win Ed another Emmy. Ben-David had impeccable sources everywhere. It was just after the massive attack on Gaza.

What had begun under his guidance as a very precise campaign—carefully planned, targeted assassinations of the most radical Palestinian leaders, the men who trained and commanded the missile teams and suicide bombers—had spiraled completely out of control. The TV screen was now filled each day with grisly images of noncombatants—old men, women, and children—also blown apart by Israeli helicopter gunships and drones.

Now our crazies are as wild as theirs. A couple of months later, Ben-David resigned from the Mossad and returned with his wife to the kibbutz at Ein Gedi.

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There had been no further word from him—until yesterday. Ed had been in the edit room of his office in Paris, contemplating the image of a gangling African boy on the Sony monitor. The kid wore an Avatar T-shirt and brandished an AK It was a spectacular image for what was to have been a sensational report: hopped-up child soldiers exploited by ruthless buccaneers ready to rip apart a swath of Africa to make a fortune in diamonds.

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A brutal, cynical trade that the UN and all the countries involved had sworn to suppress years ago, but there it was, still flourishing. There were too many countries no one cared about. The thing would plunge the viewers into a coma. He had been promised a weekly hour-long broadcast of his own, with the notoriety, power, and seven-figure salary that went with it.

He was interrupted by his assistant, Colleen Fisher. Ed cocked his head to one side, his forehead creased. It is serious—believe me. Ed paused. He glanced at the images on the editing console again. Perhaps Ben-David was losing it—but perhaps not. He had never been one to exaggerate. Ed could make it to Israel and back in a couple of days. It would be a welcome break from this African quagmire. Another hour and a half to go, thought Ed as he sipped a bottle of water.

He bypassed Jerusalem and continued through hardscrabble gulches, home to a few remaining Bedouins, their camels and donkeys hobbled next to their battered pickups.

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The road turned south, dipped into the Judean Desert. On the right, the bone-dry mountains and gorges of what geologists call the Afro-Syrian Rift; ahead and to the left, the Dead Sea shimmered in the late-afternoon heat. Suddenly, a police car flashed by, its siren howling, dust flaring in the sun. It was just after five p. He turned on the car radio and found the English-language news broadcast from Kol Yisrael.

The blast occurred at three forty-five this afternoon. Two of the injured were tourists. No one has yet claimed responsibility. Jesus, thought Ed as the announcer rattled on, how the hell can anyone live with the constant tension in this place, the threat of violence always ready to explode? A military jeep and van roared by, headed north. At the turnoff for the kibbutz, he saw where all the emergency traffic was coming from: a few hundred yards down the highway was a cluster of military jeeps and trucks. Soldiers in olive-green battle dress had cordoned off a group of buildings by the Dead Sea: the Ein Gedi Spa.

Ed parked and walked to the checkpoint. A gaggle of German tourists had stopped, and one of them, a potbellied blonde, was chattering into her cell phone, giving a strident account to friends or family in Germany. The others were taking pictures of one another posed in front of the soldiers.

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A stringy, gray-haired reservist manned the checkpoint, a TAR slung from his shoulder. Ed produced his Israeli press pass. The explosion had hit thirty yards away. Shards of painted silver metal, twisted steel and chrome, were all that remained of the vehicle. The blast had cratered the highway, knocked a hole in the cement wall of the coffee shop, blown out the door and all the windows.

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Two investigators in plain clothes were picking through the debris, taking measurements and notes as they went. Three young men wearing bright yellow vests—ultra-Orthodox volunteers from the Zaka organization—were carefully collecting body parts and shards of human flesh, some hanging from the branches of the palm trees, to return to their families for religious burial. There was still a thin veil of dust and a faint, acrid smell in the air.

Ed coughed a couple of times. He could already feel his chest tightening. An army colonel wearing wraparound sunglasses and the double-eagle insignia of AMAN came over. Between coughs, Ed again produced his press pass.

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He inserted the inhaler in his mouth, pressed, and inhaled deeply. After a few minutes, he could feel the bronchial passages opening, but the relief was only temporary. His breathing was still labored. He had to get away from the site and the irritants swirling in the air. He walked unsteadily to his car, drove back to the highway, and waited there for a few minutes until the attack had receded.

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The Watchmans File The Watchmans File
The Watchmans File The Watchmans File
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