At the time, the job had sounded simple enough—terminate an American civilian who’d stumbled upon secret information dating back to June of 1967. Knowledge of a long-forgotten event that had transpired during the Six Day War, when Israel was fighting the Arab Coalition for its very survival. The secret was supposed to have been buried deep—so deep it would never surface.
But somehow it did.
Although the information was of no strategic importance so many decades after the war, it was still considered to be a significant liability for the Israeli prime minister, potentially endangering Israel’s relationship with the United States.
The problem had to be rectified, and Mossad dispatched Danya to lead a team of four operators already living under cover in the US, to clean up the mess. Tracking down the American was easy, and terminating him should have been a simple affair. After all, he was just an ordinary civilian.
Toby’s voice brought Danya back to the present.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
Danya remained silent.
“Come on,” Toby said. “I’ve shared almost my entire life story.”
“Yeah, don’t expect me to reciprocate.”
s
With coffee in hand, Danya and Toby boarded the ferry at the Alameda Ferry Terminal, on the Oakland Inner Harbor. Before leaving the Riddle Ranch, Danya had left her trailer parked inside the old barn. She didn’t want the hassle of towing it through traffic, or to run the risk that it might be vandalized in the ferry terminal parking lot. It would be safe in the empty barn until she returned in a few days.
Expecting that her daypack would be subject to inspection prior to boarding the ferry to San Francisco, she made sure it didn’t contain any knives or firearms. However, she left the binoculars in the pack rather than risk having the expensive optics stolen from her parked car. Besides, she expected the views from the small island near the mouth of the bay to be spectacular.
After disembarking in San Francisco, the pair walked a short distance to Pier 33, where they boarded a second ferry. It was a beautiful spring morning in San Francisco, with a cool, gentle breeze blowing in from the bay. She was glad she was wearing a bulky hooded sweatshirt to ward off the chill that persisted despite the sunshine. They sat with many other Indigenous People for the short boat ride to the landing dock on Alcatraz.
“You have an unusual name for a woman,” Danya said.
“I’m named after Toby Riddle. She was an important Modoc woman who served as an interpreter during the Modoc War.”
“I haven’t heard of the Modoc War.”
“It was in the 1870s. The government wanted to force the Modocs onto the same reservation as the Klamath tribe. Have you heard of Captain Jack?”
Danya shook her head.
“He’s a famous Modoc Chief. He led a band of warriors into the lava fields to resist the army. The lava fields are rugged and extremely difficult to pass through. Captain Jack was a brilliant tactician. He held off the soldiers for many months. Anyway, in 1873, Toby Riddle overheard a plan to attack the US Peace Commission when she delivered a message to the Modoc leaders, which included Captain Jack. She told the Commission of the plan, but they didn’t heed her warning. Some of the commissioners were killed, but Toby saved the life of Alfred Meacham. He was the Oregon Indian Superintendent.”
“What happened after the war was over?” Danya said.
“The Modoc tribe was forced off their ancestral lands in northeastern California and southern Oregon, the rich lands around Tule Lake and Lost River. Some were relocated more than a thousand miles to the Indian Territory in Oklahoma, while the remainder were resettled to the Klamath Reservation.”
“I think I’m beginning to understand why this protest is important to you,” Danya said.
“It’s important to all my people. The Modoc War was late in the history of the white expansionist policies. Those policies resulted in all American Indians eventually being forced onto reservations. Think about it. Can you imagine that being done today?”
“Those were different times,” Danya said. “A lot has changed since the nineteenth century.”
“Times always change, I suppose. Eventually.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just saying the obvious. Ever since Europeans set foot on this continent, the red man has been treated as a second-class citizen, at best.” Toby paused, then whispered, “At worst, we’ve been treated as vermin—to be exterminated.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. When I was in school, only the highlights of American history were taught.” Danya paused in reflection. “Perhaps I should learn more. It seems this dark passage of your history has similarities to events in my country.”
Toby looked into her eyes, searching for any sign of deceit—a ploy to pretend to be sympathetic. But no such evidence was there.
“What was wrong then, is still wrong now,” Toby said. “The United States must acknowledge its crimes against humanity, committed in the name of westward expansion.”
Danya reflected on the history of her homeland. Founded in May 1948, the State of Israel was literally carved out of the Middle East by the victorious allies, following the end of World War II. The land was taken from Palestine, against the wishes of the Palestinian people. The result was conflict that, to this day, has not been resolved. A festering wound that showed no sign of healing.
She reflected on the Palestinian people, who were evicted from their ancestral homeland. Was their plight really any different from that of Native Americans?
Finally, Danya said, “Do you think your protests will bring about the change you seek?”
Toby sighed. “Truthfully? No, not in my lifetime. Eventually, I think attitudes will change. I mean, just look at the progress the civil rights movement of the 60s brought about. But almost six decades later, there’s still work to be done. And that civil rights movement has never extended to my people.”
“I hope this is the beginning of that change,” Danya said. “I truly do.”
“Thank you.” Toby reached out for her hand. “I’m very lucky to count you as a friend.”
“How many protestors
