Kindle Edition Amazon.com: 'The death sciences' eBook: Haim Kadman, Boaz Category:  Action/Thriller Publisher: Amazon Kindle Pages: 120 Copyright: Dec 5, 2011 Price: $7.99 (eBook) A graduate of The Hebrew university of Jerusalem is persuaded to murder his ex rector in a brainwash procedure, an act that would gain him the right to become a member of a terror organization. But rather than a one way ticket to the haven of a supposedly free fighting organization, Samir Mashrawee is turned into a wanted man, how long would he survive a lone Palestinian that became an Israeli citizen after the annexation of his village to the state of Israel. Whom can he trust? Can he trust Leila that helped him to flee from the murder scene, or any of his compatriots, which he meets in Europe? It's a gripping thriller that take you from the terror ridden Middle East to London, where a Soho restaurant can be as dangerous as the terror ridden land that you left behind. During a clandestine meeting in the old city of Jerusalem, not far from the holy shrines to Islam, Christianity and Judaism; Samir Mashrawee is persuaded in a sophisticated brainwash procedure to murder his ex rector in the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, and thus gain the right to become a member in a terror organization. The story is told through Samir's viewpoint, a Palestinian youth who lives in Sylowan, an Arab village at the outskirts of Jerusalem. After the war of 1967 Sylowan was annexed to the state of Israel, its habitants became Israeli citizens. Thus Samir carries a blue identity card and is entitled to work in Israel and study in its academic institutes. He is a tall good-looking youth, and his appearance does not reveal his Arab origin. His social connections during his studies at the Hebrew University were mainly with his compatriots, the few Israeli Arab students and with Ghill, the Israeli student with whom he shares an apartment not far from the university.  Right after slaying his ex rector, he is whisked to the southern resort region of Tabba near Eilat, on Egyptian soil; by two organization members, Leila and Taher, an Israeli Arab taxi driver. According to their cover story Leila is his just wed bride, and they are on their way to their honeymoon. He spends about a week with Leila at the luxurious five stars Hilton hotel at Tabba. The fact that their relationship is a cover story, and the fact that Leila in on her way to wed her fiancé, who is a prominent P.L.O leader, does not impede Samir from raping her, on the first opportunity he has, when they are left alone in their luxurious suite. A week later, on reaching Cairo he parts with Leila, who proceeds to her awaiting fiancé in Tunisia. According to the clandestine rules he has to keep away from the P.L.O. offices and await instructions. As the whole operation including his rescue, has been executed not long ago and in haste; his compatriots in Cairo are eager to get rid of him. They fear the Mossad long vindictive arm, and send him on a roundabout course to Amsterdam, to join the local P.L.O group over there. His arrival causes mistrust and alarm among the small group members Thus they decide to send him on to the London group - that group's lack in manpower is well known. Samir lands in Heathrow Airport and meets Karim, that was chosen to be his operator and becomes Samir's trusted comrade. In London Samir hopes to pursue his academic studies; but things change in a very drastic manner, when he is uspected of being an Israeli, a spying mole inside their organization.'He as old as my own father and that's why I didn't want to marry him Ken darling. I'd a bitter dispute with my father, but he gave up after he realized the he can't persuade me, and he solved our problem by sending me to study in London.'  Excerpt Yeah, there’s plenty of time yet. he thought yawning, pushing troubling thoughts of obligations, commitments out of his mind, falling into day dreaming, lingering over reminiscences; the professor features, his doctrines; his two daughters who disapproved their father's relationship with an Arab; just as their mother thought, but had hidden it with much tact. But she had such haughty airs, and did treat him with such arrogant scorn; that small and skinny female with the iron hold over her husband. She made the professor’s life so miserable... There was that rented apartment he shared with Ghill his Israeli roommate, which wasn't far from the very spot he was right now! (Just to think of it, how strange!). Shaoul Ghill called him a name fit for a female, when he introduced him to the landlady the leftist fool (she didn't have to know of course, that he was an Arab). “I'll do the talking” Ghill said then, which was one of the very few things he ever did right. For as long as Samir kept his mouth shut, one couldn't tell him from any other Israeli student. It took some time, to get rid of his guttural pronunciation and speak their language as they did. But there were always embarrassing circumstances, which he couldn't escape due to sheer coincidence in some of the cases; and due to those who did their best to expose his real origin – his real identity and thus humiliate him, drive him away from their circle. It did happen quite frequently, even with Ghill his good friend. The small favors he had to repay him, for his kindness. They shared an apartment between them, a fact which was a miracle in itself. The long hours he had to keep away off their common abode in the late afternoon and evenings, when Ghill's girl friend was bound to come. One such episode he remembered rather vividly, when these two stayed for some reason longer that was agreed; thus on coming back he found them sitting next to the table, for an "aftermath” cup of coffee. He wasn't introduced a fact which enhanced their mutual uneasiness. Although the embarrassed atmosphere that wench, to his amazement showed much interest in him, scrutinizing his features with a pair of impudent eyes. Those shameless searching looks disturbed him that much he had to seek refuge in their small kitchen, busying himself with the gas stove. Having poured himself a cup of black coffee, he returned to the one room they shared together, to face that Jew bitch once more. It didn't take long to figure out the cause of her curious looks, the daring gaze which he took it to be at first. How foolish of him, his liberal and tolerant friend who advocates with such fervor peaceful coexistence, international fraternity and what else, equality and likewise bullshit; betrayed him to his current bitch by telling her his secret. The furtive glances they started to exchange, the way she lowered her eyes at last, over her empty cup gave them both away. His broad minded friend Ghill, the vigilant human rights champion suddenly kept avoiding his eyes; while his current bed partner that Jew bitch did overcome her short lapse of weakness, and assailed him again with those daring looks of hers; though making it clear somehow that she knows, while her looks seemed to come behind an invisible wall. The ‘fair opportunity’ which he cherished, the very slight chance he had for just a few seconds thought of; as a direct reaction to those daring looks (she was pretty curse her! Knowing that she did get it, just a while ago, wasn't an easy trial either) simply faded away, vanished. Nevertheless she must have fancied the same thoughts he did, the profligate bitch! Remembering the frenzied fury, which took hold of him at that time, rekindled in him these same wild dissolute emotions again. A terrible urge assailed him, swept all over him, to rush his roommate and clutch his throat, wriggle it, twist it, crush it into a lifeless pulp! Slap that Jew bitch with all his might on her slightly parted lips, once and again; throw her back onto his bed, tear her clothes off, and rape her there and then! Didn't she desire it herself the reckless bitch? The fear that all of a sudden masked her face, her frightened looks, enraged him even more. With a quick dart he rose to his feet and pushed his way to the door, bumping his thigh against the table's edge and his shoulder against the door post. While he was slamming the door behind him, he could hear Ghill calling out: "Sha-ouulll wait, don't you go...!" Shaoul he called him the hyena, the filthy hypocrite! The morning dew has dried up already, and the rising sun was scorching his face; thirst bothered him. Out of foolish fretfulness he didn't bring along any drink with him. He was briefed, instructed, had adequate time to do whatever he needed, and still something was amiss! A vague and far form of a man was moving on the path, moving straight towards him; an undefined silhouette, widening and narrowing rhythmically against the blinding brightness of the rising sun. Deeply moved still by his infuriating reminiscences Samir watched the approaching vague silhouette through narrow blinking eye slits, perceiving hardly its details.

From the Back Cover
Very strange isn't it? Samir thought while he was sitting the next morning at the same restaurant having breakfast. It did take him some time to find a suitable room, in a nearby hotel, which he at first rejected. But after a short tour in which he rode a cab, and visited several of those night shelters; he returned to the one he started his tour with. It was a modest abode, but clean and adequately convenient, not too far from the terminal's restaurant.
A good choice it was. He concluded pleased with himself. The very right place, a safe shelter to stay in for a short term, a spot that would enable me to leave in a hurry if things are getting too risky and really hot... He made his way to the terminal's restaurant on foot to stretch his limbs a little bit – and to learn the surroundings better; and give some thought to the coming meeting, prepare himself for it. Summing the matter up, he decided to play the modest fellow, and thus leave them with the best impressions he could – make a real good start by it; the only point that had bothered him still, was how would they reach him?’
But they claim to be so smart and sophisticated, so why shouldn't I count on their efficient means and methods? Let them do their job and find me!
It has been a long time, since he was so composed and calm. Anyway, if they missed me completely yesterday, how would they manage now, today? It could have been a good joke, if I wasn't a part of it.
He lighted up another cigarette while watching the tall Dutch girls with much interest, the least effort he could make not to get too bored.
The time was ten thirty five already and nobody had popped up yet to welcome his safe arrival.
Never mind, I’m not rushing anywhere, and after all I did my move last night and have nothing to worry about – it’s their turn now.
In fact he was very eager to meet his fellow countrymen again, speak their mutual language. But above all, he was anxious to discuss his future; to have some idea vague as it might be, about his own fate.
Breakfast was over and he lingered over a cup of coffee with a few drops of rum, enjoying its aroma and the warmth it endowed his body. At about ten forty eight, when he was on the verge of calling the chairman once again, his eye caught the fleeting figure of a man through the glass wall – whose oriental dark features left no doubt as to what his origin might be.
Watching Samir's face attentively, the stranger raised his brows with much exaggeration – turning his face for a few seconds into a live question mark. Pushing the glass door open he entered the place, and then stopped still; passing his eyes all over the place, he turned back to Samir with expectancy.
Smiling as if he had known the stranger for years, Samir stood up waiting for him to approach his table; while the stranger a young man in his late twenties was moving toward him, without changing his stern expression.
‘Welcome brother o' mine!’ Samir whispered to him in Arabic, sending forth his right hand. They exchanged a rather weak and cold handshake full of suspicion and mistrust, and sat down facing each other.
‘You look like some "Frangie…’ (Frenchman=foreigner) his guest muttered expressing his mistrust openly. ‘Well than,’ he added, ‘had a nice and eventless trip I've heard.’
‘That's right.’ Samir nodded his head answering eagerly.
‘Do you have anything of extraordinary importance to report, or…’
The waiter was hovering not too far off, venturing forward – expecting some new order. Although they were speaking in their mother tongue, the stranger hesitated, stopped in mid sentence and turned his head toward the approaching waiter.
‘What will you have? Samir asked him, ‘a second breakfast?’ He added with a chuckle.
‘Coffee, just coffee and some mineral water – and call me Abas. Samir isn't it?’
Samir nodded his head once again and summoned the waiter.
‘Coffee and a bottle of mineral water,’ Samir ordered in English.
‘Coffee’ Abas echoed after him to the waiter.
‘Is there anything else that you wish to have, some pastry perhaps?’ The waiter asked politely in hesitant English.
Abas raised his open right palm to his face almost pursued his lips in a negative smile, and looked back into Samir’s eyes, as if he didn’t understand. ‘Thank you,’ Samir replied him moving his head from side to side, and the waiter turned on his heels smartly, and left.
‘Do you see?’ Abas asked him. ‘There's no need to reveal unnecessary details about yourself, what languages you speak and any other data – the fewer words you utter, the better.’
’Sure...’ Samir answered him unconvinced, and unimpressed. With a face like yours, it doesn't make the slightest difference whether you open your mouth or keep it shut; any fool would mark you down as an Arab. Here it comes again! He told himself utterly disappointed. The bastard can't do without a show off. But beware you're leading things, to a nasty turn! He warned himself, alarmed. Abas is treating him as a novice, and being too sensitive might damage his future relations with this man and many others – and after all he was a novice! Having reached remarkable achievements couldn't change the fact. He was a greenhorn and he had much to learn yet. Every hint and insinuation was hitting him with an impact of a poisoned arrow; as if it were an unforgivable insult – as if his manhood was challenged, or worse doubted... Well it was his duty and his alone to clear the atmosphere, to obey and respect – otherwise he is doomed.
He pulled out a packet of cigarettes out of his breast pocket, and offered it to Abas. The gesture was well timed, Abas was smiling at last. The thin layer of enmity that was menacing their meeting, faded away.
‘That's my favorite brand.’ Abas noted with satisfaction, drawing a cigarette out and rolling it eagerly between his fingers. Samir brought out a lighter, and extending his hand toward his guest, he offered him the tiny flame.
The waiter on his way back with fresh coffee reached their table and waited patiently to the end of the ceremony – holding his platter above their heads almost.
But Abas took his time, and getting hold of Samir's wrist with the lighter in it, scrutinized it and its tiny flame for a few seconds – then pulled Samir's hand closer to his face, lighting his cigarette.
The lousy bastard is patronizing me! Samir thought with bitter disapproval. He was frustrated, but managed to keep a serene expression.
With the ceremony over the waiter made his move, laid the table anew and left right away.
‘Well how are you doing?’ Abas asked after a short while – puffing smoke and talking at the same time.
‘Il hamdoulila’ (Allah be praised=I'm okay) answered Samir briskly.
‘Don't you find the whole thing tiresome; don't you have any ideas of, say, how to improve procedures etc.?’ He went on asking.
‘What procedures, what things, what exactly do you mean?’ Samir asked him with a feigned surprise, avoiding the open and obvious trap.
‘The way of life you're bound to lead from now on, that's the thing.’
‘As far as I know I'm bound to carry on my studies and thank god, I don't find anything particularly tiresome in that. That answer was too straight and had a hint of impertinence, though it was said quite politely.
‘ In that case I'm sorry to disappoint you my young compatriot, it’s the organization alone that will decide the course of studies you'll take; and for the time being you're planned to join a three months course – to learn the art of guerilla warfare, in Yugoslavia.’
‘You must be joking!’ Samir answered he didn't have to pretend to be surprised this time. ‘I've just came from Belgrade. I flew there just three days ago – and you expect me to believe I've been travelling day and night, nonstop to reach Amsterdam just to return to where I've started?’
Although he was shocked, he did not lose his temper, did not raise his voice, but kept whispering in Arabic his objections. Aware at the same time, with much relief to learn that when Abas mentioned ‘ideas’, he was checking his character, his temper; anyway he did not refer to his flight, which was an offence by all means. I did fly in spite my instructions! I broke the rules and should be punished gravely for it... But it seems that I’m the only one that knows it – the sole and only one...! I was on my own all along that trip, nobody watched me or took care of me! They were all too busy, curse the mothers who gave them birth – to explore the many bars, the cabarets and the brothels of Amsterdam no doubt!
‘So what,’ Abas hissed at him. ‘These are your orders and that round about trip of yours, was meant to mislead our enemies. Nothing went wrong and here you are, safe and sound and the trip is behind you.’ Abas paused for a short break, taking a deep breath – there were other ways to persuade that young man. ‘Besides, it’s your chance to get on within our ranks, don't you wish to become an expert of automatic weapons, or of high explosives; a demolition man mind you, who blows up bridges, railways; or be an expert in the martial arts, a black belt! Well...?’ He made another break chuckling slightly. ‘It won't interfere with your future studies, and if you ask me, I don't happen to know anyone, who was offered such a chance that early! And I haven't met anyone yet, who said no thank you!’
They were both leaning forward on their elbows, watching each other’s face, trying to figure each other out.
‘I say, it did confuse you a bit, that trip, didn't it? You need some rest, that course is due to begin next week – there’s still time enough left for a second thought.’
But Samir was not persuaded at all by Abs's arguments. Thus with some hesitations he decided to move against it. ‘Well, you're probably right and I'm no expert in that kind of business – and I'm terribly sorry to let you down, but I've no intention to become one...! I've been sent abroad to carry on my studies. I'm sure the chairman was briefed about it, and knows my case.’
Abas was some four or five years older than himself; he had to be careful not to hurt his feelings. What did he know about him, nothing at all. He might be a powerful figure with someone to push him up the ladder. But in any case, Samir did not intend to fall into their rank and file and become some dubious hit man, prepared rather poorly in a three months course… A hit man who would be an easy prey to the ‘Mosad’ experienced and efficient pros.’ He gave his share in that particular field and had had enough. If he would persist, if he would stand up for his rights, to carry on his studies, there's a good chance that whatever he did... back home... would soon be forgotten – as an unsolved riddle, an enigma. Il fat mat! (The past is dead) He told himself encouraged. Why risk my neck again...? Why live in constant terror, of booby-trapped cars and avenging gunmen on motorbikes...! Now about that promise which nobody ever gave me... If anyone would ever probe deep into that matter, I could always claim that Abu-razek brought me an oral promise; it'll be all right, it'll work! Abas was right in one thing, certain people might end up confused no doubt after such a trip, but not me! He kept encouraging himself
‘The chairman has nothing to do with it, he is just a figurehead!’ Abas said resolutely. ‘By the way, what time did you phone him yesterday?’ He asked Samir.
‘Well, I believe it was at about seven fifteen.’
‘Was he the one who received your call?’
‘No, some Dutch female.’
‘Is that so,’ smiled Abas triumphantly. Well then…’ But in an abrupt change of mind he stopped in mid sentence, and raising the burning cigarette to his lips, blowing smoke thoughtfully he turned to Samir again. ’Esma ya...!’ (Listen) ‘Nobody intends to send you off in half an hour notice, even if you would have agreed to go. It would have taken at least another week before you could leave. So you still have enough time to change your mind, we won't force you – we won't even try. It must be your own decision and anyway, it’s a very good start to any career in our organization. So don't dismiss it, give it a very serious second thought.
‘I will think it over.’ Samir promised him.
Abas did not answer, there was no need to. The young man expressed his refusal in a typically roundabout way, if Samir on the other hand would have agreed to his demand, to join the three months course of basic guerilla warfare. They would have had virtually a quick though temporary solution to the problem – for Samir was a problem. He was their present headache. They had no concrete plans for him. They were a small and compact group of men, five in all, except the dozen or so who were headed by the chairman; those who ran the office, the dormitory, and the social club for their poor unemployed compatriots; all those wretched wrecks who could hardly read and write, good for nothing beggars no one could use. Anyway Abas had a nice and easy job; he had nothing to do with the chairman and his staff. There was only Abu-awad his boss over his head, and three other peons who did the daily work – when there was any work at all... The one who actually ran the show, was he himself, Abu-awad's second in command. While his boss supervised the local arena through oral reports, which he Abas his loyal second in command and operational officer submitted regularly. As Abu-awad had to travel all over Europe most of his time, and did spend most of his weekends in Paris, at the organization's headquarters – rather busy in promoting his own interests.
A week earlier Abu-awad returned from a very constructive weekend in Paris, but alas somehow without a warning what's so ever, about Samir’s sudden and surprising arrival. The fact he was informed of it by the chairman was a bitter blow and a humiliating experience. They were caught off guards, unprepared; they did not have the slightest idea who Samir was... What was his background or why was he sent at all! The few details already known to them, seemed exaggerated, particularly now – thought Abas sitting opposite Samir next to the same table. Why...! Abas kept on thinking reflectively with much disdain. On my first glimpse I took him for an Israeli, a student in some European university – that's how he looks. He has the features of a foreigner all right. He could be a Spaniard, an Italian – but Allah the merciful, who knows, he might be a Jew-boy a ‘Mosad’ product... a cursed impostor… Deeply alarmed he scrutinized Samir's features attentively again – taking a good hard look at Samir’s complexion, the color of his hair and eye. He might be an Inglisie (a nickname to offsprings with British blood, remnants of the British mandate) In any case he’s too conspicuous...! Abas decided. The young dandy attracted too much attention. They were hardly an hour there, while people kept coming in and leaving the place incessantly. Too many heads turned around to have a last look or a first glimpse, at Samir. Abas did not like it at all. Is that young dandy that good looking? No, I don’t think so, and it isn’t relevant in any case! That man is a real headache, a real hazard; the sooner we'll get rid of him the better! Besides, we can't demand an expansion of our yearly budget on his account – a sole newcomer. Well, I'd better send him back to his hotel, for a couple of days – check him out, his origin and background; whether he is some impostor, a traitor who would penetrate our midst – or if he is a headquarters snoop, who was sent to spy on us… Abas kept thinking undecided for a few seconds, but then braced himself and made up his mind. ‘It's getting late!’ He said shaking off decisively his own suspicions and doubts, for a while. ‘Take yourself a leave, have some rest – you need it, and meet me in my office the day after tomorrow, Let's say at eight o'clock in the evening, any cab will get you there!’ They rose to their feet, both of them glad the meeting is over and shook hands warmly.
’You're well provided I understand?’ Abas checked just before leaving.
’For the time being, yes,’ Samir replied without any hesitation.
‘Well then, get along, move! Leave the place before me!’ Abas whispered to him, extracting his right hand from Samir's hard grasp.