It all made me feel like I was a Bond girl.
And it was truly like that—only I was being taken advantage of, had things hidden from me, and I’d never have originally allowed myself to be a part of that madness. It was simply suicide. I haven’t a clue who’d authorize something like that.
Even more so, I’ve no idea how we pulled it off. The mission was, from the start, considered to have a very low opportunity to succeed. Everyone knew that it was highly likely they wouldn’t be buying a ticket home.
Everyone except me. I refused to give up my wonderful life for a set of ideals. Nor for anything else. I live for myself.
All those macho guys can go look for their silenced-gun-wielding friends. If I wanted to, I could school each and every one of them. They are nothing but children.
Speaking of—I forgot to tell you.
I have a fourteen-year-old daughter.
Natasha and Eran have three children. Twin girls and a boy.
Timothy also had a child. It’s better I don’t tell you what happened to him. I can tell you that his first wife committed suicide and that he is currently remarried. She also doesn’t seem particularly stable, I must say.
I once asked him about his son, and his eyes practically vibrated in his sockets. Since I had no idea whether it was in anger or grief, I quickly escaped to the ladies’ room and asked myself out loud in front of the mirror, “What are you doing, you idiot? Who do you think you are? Go back to the table—quickly—and pray this blows over peacefully.”
The target had been the seemingly accidental murder of ten people. Nine unlucky souls and one who completely lacked any semblance of humanity. It had been prohibited for the actual target to be discovered, and the whole operation was supposed to look as if it was carried out by an insane sniper—a serial killer who shot people from rooftops. Just because. Randomly.
But plans never align with reality. We hit a snag. Luckily, I only ended up breaking both my legs and my pelvis. I’ve completely healed, and I believe I’ve made it quite clear that there are no lingering problems with my legs or my pelvis above them. It’s only gotten stronger since. Half a year of physiotherapy after six months of having half my body is a cast. The amount of pencils I used to scratch my abused skin when I lay in the rehabilitation ward in Tel HaShomer could have supplied three elementary schools.
Eran was by my side the whole time. Nursing me back to health, comforting me, saving me.
I will forever be in love with him. And he will forever be in love with me, too. So what though? What can we do about it?
After my army service, I volunteered at Greenpeace and was later recruited for more complicated purposes for the organization.
Natasha was planted at Greenpeace by Eran. He loves her. Cares for her, too. But she has no idea she’s part of a worldwide platform that simultaneously saves and destroys lives.
I jumped from the fourth-floor window. It was either that or stay in that room and suffer shots coming from all four directions. It was a matter of seconds. Eran pushed me then jumped right after me. He landed first on a shop’s awning, breaking his fall, while I slammed straight into the ground, immediately losing consciousness.
They told me it was a miracle I survived.
That first night in Amsterdam, we walked through Amstel Park with a joint, laughing like children. We kissed, loved each other, and spent plenty of time partying between the sheets.
On the second night, Eran told me why we were really there. Before that, as we lay in his wife’s bed, he only told me he fancied a week away with me in Amsterdam.
I was supposed to delay a doctor of nuclear physics and an expert regarding radiological terror tactics for five minutes. A piece of cake.
If I put my mind to delaying someone, he’s usually delayed no longer than a minute—and that’s if he’s a right stud. Let’s simply say that I’m good at more than sleeping when it comes to activities in bed—though that is something I highly enjoy, too, by the way. I’m religious about it. At ten thirty I put my cell on flight mode and the world can burn for all I care. Let them wake me to see it.
On the third morning I was already dressed in an executive housekeeper uniform for the Krasnopolsky hotel. I had switched with a woman named Esty, an Israeli who basically was kept bored to tears folding towels for a year and a half, only for me to come and steal her glory. And I don’t include within that the ten milliliters of fluid from the doctor. That was the last of its kind he ever gave.
At 14:00 PM, everyone was already in their positions. The weapons, safety measures—both physical and electronic—with cover from all angles… everything was meticulously planned.
At 14:15, twenty-six silenced shots were fired from six different rooftops around the hotel.
In thirty seconds, ten bodies fell to the ground: three women, a brother and sister in their teenage years, and five men.
One of them was the doctor. The doctor who helped the Iranians with that thing that had to be stopped.
Eran was and is an idealist. And so handsome. I love his wittiness. My love for his eyes I already confessed earlier. Only, he always said that I was only with him when it suited me, and that sucked for him. And he was right. Both about me doing it and about it sucking. I couldn’t be in a relationship, because anyone who was, eventually got hurt. That’s life. And I was through with getting hurt. I’ve had enough of that for three lifetimes. Eran did me good. Until he became cantankerous.
I don’t like
