about the downside; I hadnât been tricked. I kept moving forward with my training.
About six months into my training, events took a traumatic turnâso traumatic that I tried to quit for a second time.
I was on a mission in the old port of Jaffa, taking photos of boats in the marina as part of a tour group Iâd joined for operational cover. A creepy little man walked up to me and asked if I wanted to buy some drugs. He was shifty and kept rubbing his nose. I brushed him off, but he wouldnât take no for an answer. He kept following me, and I finally hissed at him between clenched teeth, âPiss off.â Eventually I left on the tour bus, and I forgot about the incidentâbut only for a short while.
I was in my hotel later that night when someone knocked at my door. It was two plainclothes detectives. All business, they had a warrant for my arrest. I asked on what charge and they told me âdrug smuggling.â I protested my innocence, but they put me in cuffs all the same. I decided to ride with it, sure that a simple, rational chat would clear the whole thing up. They collected all my belongings and then led me in handcuffs through the hotelâs packed lobbyâquite the spectacle for my fellow guests.
At the police station, I was processedâfingerprints, mug shot, the works. They even took my belt and shoelaces. Then they put me in a cell with a huge steel door with a small eye slot. I was freezing; it was December and even Israel gets cold at night. The toilet was a foulsmelling hole in the floor. I had no window and the only light came from a single bulb overhead. I went over my cover story in my head and tried to rest, but couldnât close my eyes. This seemed serious, and I wondered where it was going to lead.
Early the next morning, a uniformed cop led me up to a chamber about the size of a standard office conference room, where I was met by two men. One was boyish with short brown hair. He looked like Kevin Bacon. The other was heavyset with glasses and thinning hair. He reminded me of Jack Nicholson. I called them Kevin and Jack in my head.
I tried a friendly approach, and said âgood morningâ with the best smile I could muster. Spread on a table in front of me were all the articles from my bag and suitcase. My photos were developed and scattered in plain view. My small shortwave radio was in pieces, and so was my camera.
I was shoved into a chair; Jack kicked its legs out from under me and I tumbled to the floor. He hauled me up and sat me back down. He then cracked me a good one across the face.
âWho are you?â Kevin demanded. I told him my spiel. My status cover story had changed since those early days in training: I was now a businessman on Mossad-fabricated foreign documents.
They told me that they had seen me interact with a drug dealer in Jaffa, and were sure that I was a smuggler. I pleaded my innocence and insisted that the dealer was a stranger to me. I donât know how I did it, but I stuck to my storyâeven though I was sorely tempted to tell them that this was all a big mistake and that I was on a Mossad exercise. The questioning went on all day, and then I was sent back down to my cell.
I was now able to sit in silence and ponder my predicament. I felt sick with fear. I was thinking endlessly about my family and started to feel my resolve weaken. I wanted to break cover and make it stop, but something inside my head wouldnât let me. I remember thinking, if I can just endure this a little longer, someone will realize that Iâm missing and start to look for me. I felt alone and completely out of control. I went over my cover story in my head and worried until my stomach ached. I didnât sleep.
The next day, they roughed me up a bit more. They humiliated and mocked me. They made me sit and stand for long periods at their whim, and on many occasions forced my head down between my knees while I was being questioned. They
About six months into my training, events took a traumatic turnâso traumatic that I tried to quit for a second time.
I was on a mission in the old port of Jaffa, taking photos of boats in the marina as part of a tour group Iâd joined for operational cover. A creepy little man walked up to me and asked if I wanted to buy some drugs. He was shifty and kept rubbing his nose. I brushed him off, but he wouldnât take no for an answer. He kept following me, and I finally hissed at him between clenched teeth, âPiss off.â Eventually I left on the tour bus, and I forgot about the incidentâbut only for a short while.
I was in my hotel later that night when someone knocked at my door. It was two plainclothes detectives. All business, they had a warrant for my arrest. I asked on what charge and they told me âdrug smuggling.â I protested my innocence, but they put me in cuffs all the same. I decided to ride with it, sure that a simple, rational chat would clear the whole thing up. They collected all my belongings and then led me in handcuffs through the hotelâs packed lobbyâquite the spectacle for my fellow guests.
At the police station, I was processedâfingerprints, mug shot, the works. They even took my belt and shoelaces. Then they put me in a cell with a huge steel door with a small eye slot. I was freezing; it was December and even Israel gets cold at night. The toilet was a foulsmelling hole in the floor. I had no window and the only light came from a single bulb overhead. I went over my cover story in my head and tried to rest, but couldnât close my eyes. This seemed serious, and I wondered where it was going to lead.
Early the next morning, a uniformed cop led me up to a chamber about the size of a standard office conference room, where I was met by two men. One was boyish with short brown hair. He looked like Kevin Bacon. The other was heavyset with glasses and thinning hair. He reminded me of Jack Nicholson. I called them Kevin and Jack in my head.
I tried a friendly approach, and said âgood morningâ with the best smile I could muster. Spread on a table in front of me were all the articles from my bag and suitcase. My photos were developed and scattered in plain view. My small shortwave radio was in pieces, and so was my camera.
I was shoved into a chair; Jack kicked its legs out from under me and I tumbled to the floor. He hauled me up and sat me back down. He then cracked me a good one across the face.
âWho are you?â Kevin demanded. I told him my spiel. My status cover story had changed since those early days in training: I was now a businessman on Mossad-fabricated foreign documents.
They told me that they had seen me interact with a drug dealer in Jaffa, and were sure that I was a smuggler. I pleaded my innocence and insisted that the dealer was a stranger to me. I donât know how I did it, but I stuck to my storyâeven though I was sorely tempted to tell them that this was all a big mistake and that I was on a Mossad exercise. The questioning went on all day, and then I was sent back down to my cell.
I was now able to sit in silence and ponder my predicament. I felt sick with fear. I was thinking endlessly about my family and started to feel my resolve weaken. I wanted to break cover and make it stop, but something inside my head wouldnât let me. I remember thinking, if I can just endure this a little longer, someone will realize that Iâm missing and start to look for me. I felt alone and completely out of control. I went over my cover story in my head and worried until my stomach ached. I didnât sleep.
The next day, they roughed me up a bit more. They humiliated and mocked me. They made me sit and stand for long periods at their whim, and on many occasions forced my head down between my knees while I was being questioned. They
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