Selected Detective
MYSTERY GUEST

They were made up of two people, or at least more than two people as far as I could tell. They came up to me from behind, holding my hand. One of them held my head so I couldn't see their faces.they didn't hurt me. They were calm and spoke well.

It was clear that, when they took me and pushed me into the car and threw the blanket over my head, they would not tolerate the resistance.

We drove the vehicle for two hours, maybe more after just a few minutes I had lost my orientation of time and direction. We walked up, then down again, which made me think that we were heading southeast beyond Jerusalem towards Jericho and the dead Sea plain, although it may be possible that they just go around in circles to disorient me and make sure that we are not followed by others.

After about half an hour, we stopped and a third person got into the car and sat in the front passenger seat. There's the smell of cigarette smoke. I think Farid, although I'm not so sure. Surprisingly, I'm not afraid. During my time in this region, I had been in a situation several times when my instincts said I was in danger, but this time it was not.

Whatever the purpose of my kidnapping is, it is not violence. So far I have done what was said. For the last twenty minutes we were in a bumpy lane, and then in a village or a refugee camp settlement? because I can hear the sounds, the occasional music, and the car going back and forth as if looking for a small road.

Finally we stopped, with the blanket still rolling in my head, I hurried towards a building. I climbed a number of stairs and entered a room. I sat on a wooden chair. On the sidelines of the blanket cloth, I caught a glimpse of the blue and white tile floor before I felt like there were diving glasses strapped to my head, both lenses covered in ribbons so I was made blind. I could feel someone behind me, a woman judging by the sound of her breathing, and could hear voices in one area of the house, very fond and barely audible. I guess I can catch a number of words in Egyptian Arabic, which is somewhat different from the Palestinian dialect, although I lost my orientation so much that I didn't feel sure.

I didn't hear this man enter the room or sit down. All that made me realize of his presence was the gentle gust of fragrance after shaving the manio (i have a friend who used to wear it). Even though I didn't see him, I thought he was tall, slender and well-equipped. The woman behind me stepped forward and gave me the paper and pen in my hand. There was a long enough silence that I could hear the soft breath of her, feeling her eyes gaze towards me.

“You will undergo an interview,” he finally spoke up. His voice was slow and measured, educated, a voice that gave no sign of his age or origin.

“You are given thirty minutes.”

“And who exactly will interview me?”

“I'd rather keep my name to myself. There will be no meaning to you, more appropriate disguise.”

“And it is?” There was a faint sigh, as if this man in front of me was smiling.

“You can call me Al-mulatham. You have twenty-nine and a half minutes left.” Layla squirms and, lying on the side of the magazine, stands up and walks into her small kitchen. It was 2:30 in the morning, and, in addition to the roar of the snoring of Fathi the housekeeper from the part of the building below, the world was entirely deserted.

He attacked the water in the kettle, made black coffee for himself and returned to the living room, sipping coffee in his cup. He arrived home half an hour early, drunk, after spending two bottles of wine and some brandies with Noah. He took a shower to clean his head, sipped a few glasses of water, then disappeared into his study and re-disclosed the mysterious letter from the basket, the letter he had received earlier in the day, with a thick inscription in blood red ink and an attached photocopy.

Miss Al-madani, I have been an admirer of your journalism for so long, and intend to present a proposal to you. Some time ago, you interviewed a leader known as Al-Mulatham...

He looked back at the copy paper, then walked to his filing cabinet and searched for the interview piece referenced by the letter. The interview appeared in the Observer magazine under the headline HIDDEN NOW REVEALED – EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEWS WITH MEN – MOST FEARED MEN IN THE MIDDLE EAST.

He pulled the archive, took it to the living room and started reading it. He is described as the new Saladin, the incarnation of Satan, the man who made hamas and Islamic Jihad look like a good friend of Israel. Since the Palestinian Brotherhood launched its first suicide attack three years ago, which killed five people at a hotel in Netanya, it has been responsible for more than 400 deaths, the majority are civilians. While other Palestinian extremist groups have at least shown a willingness to enter into a ceasefire and negotiations, al-mulatham na ma

It is a campaign that polarizes the politics of a region that has been polarized, it shatters any surviving hope of a meaningful peace process and leads Israelis and Palestinians to an all-out war that cannot be bargained for.

Polls show that with each attack, Israeli public opinion, which has been hardened by the activities of other Palestinian extremist groups, is increasingly pushed further to the right, with support for right-wing politicians like Baruch har-zion who showed up that afternoon.

At the same time, the growing violence and arbitrariness of Israeli retaliatory measures has in turn shown a rise in support for militant organizations such as the Palestinian Brotherhood. In the words of the moderate Palestinian politician Sa’ib Marsudi, the man whose lifelong involvement in Palestinian activities has not included a five-year prison term for helping smuggle weapons into Gaza gives a certain weight to his criticism of al-mulatham: “This is a vicious cycle. The extremists are feeding and supporting each other. When al-mulatham killed five Israelis, Israel killed ten Palestinians, then al-mulatham killed fifteen Israelis, and so on, and so on. We're swimming in a lake full of blood.”

What sets the Brotherhood aside is not merely the regularity and speed of the attacks, but the fact that despite the extensive efforts of the securities services of Israel and dozens of other countries, including the Palestinian authority itself, the statement said, nothing is known about the organization or the person who led it. Where his headquarters are, who is a member, how his “Martir” was recruited and the funds to run its operations all remain a complete mystery. No reliable informant has ever come forward, no group member has ever been detained. This is an unprecedented level of organization and secrecy in the history of Palestinian activism, and that has led many experts to speculate that a steady state security operation should ultimately be behind the attack.

Iran, Libya and Syria have all been debated as the most likely sponsors, as has Osama bin Laden's al-Qaeda network.

“The Palestinians are not that good,” one Israeli security expert once commented. “There must be informants that you can always meet. How the Brotherhood operates is way too sophisticated for a Palestinian defector cell. The thrusters must be something from outside.”

Despite such speculations, neither side comes close to revealing the truth about Al-Mulatham. And now I sit in front of him. New Saladin.

Satan's Incarnation. The most dangerous men in the Middle East. He asked me if I wanted to have tea and biscuits. From outside came the sound of the lid of the grain container. Layla rubbed her eyes, stood up and walked over to the window, looking at the street below. Two men were loading a still warm loaf of bread into the back of the Van; far away on the hill, and, a small group of people had already started queuing outside the Israeli Interior Ministry office with great expectation to renew their residence permits inside the city. A little above them, on the other side of the road, a white BMW was parked in front of the gate leading to the Garden Tomb, with the Israeli vehicle number yellow and transparent inside. A shadowy figure seemed to be sitting motionless in the steering chair.

Layla had seen the same car parked there several times before. And despite his rational explanation that it was a Shin Bet vehicle that was keeping a close eye on the Palestinian queue on the opposite side, he could not let go of the driver's suspicions that he was actually staring directly at the window of his apartment. He looked down now, more curious than uncomfortable. Then, while shaking his head, he returned to the sofa and read the article again.

He read the rest of the writing in the article which is basically a series of quotes that extended to be a justification for al-mulatham for his violent campaign and vowed to continue “ until the land of Palestine became red by blood jewish children” before re-reading the last few paragraphs, which always sends a subtle vibration on his spine.

And then, all of a sudden, as brief as the start, the interview came to an end. One minute we talked, the next I stood up and went down the stairs, with dark glasses still perched on my head. As soon as I got to the ground floor, I heard his voice from above.

“There will be many questions about whether this interview really happened, Miss Al-madani. To calm any doubts, please tell Israeli securities services that at 9:05pm tonight one of our operators will be martyring itself on behalf of an independent Palestine. May your journey be safe.” Two hours later I was left on the side of a road south of Bethlehem. I told the Israeli authorities what happened.

That same night, at the appointed hour, a bomb exploded in Hagar Square in West Jerusalem, killing eight people and wounding ninety-three. it says more than any interview can say about the nihilism of the man known as al-mulatham, that those who were killed and benefited were attending the Gush Shalom peace rally.

“He has done as much damage to my people as damage to the creation of the State of Israel,” Sa’ib marsudi said. “More than that, perhaps, because once upon a time we were once seen as victims. Now, thanks to him, we are seen as killers.” I suspect Al-Mulatham will take this as a compliment.

Layla put the article on her side and picked up the curious letter again, reading the whole thing once again, with her eyebrows creased. Obviously there's something about him, something that. He was too tired to be able to give any response at this time, and left both articles and letters on his desk. He then stepped into the bedroom, falling asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.

The GR initials echoed at the edge of his mind like thunderous rumblings in the distance on a dark winter night.