The Stranger

[-Xenon-]

Authors Note: This will go fairly slowly as I'm snowed under at work right now, but thought it was a good time to get writing again. This is played on FM11, leagues loaded are: Israel, Lebanon and Palestine. It's an idea I've had for a long while, finally getting round to implementing it. Hope you enjoy

The Stranger

Tel Aviv, Israel

تل أبيب ، إسرائيل

תל אביב, ישראל

“In five years, how do you think your recovery has progressed?”

Ariel didn’t like her line of questioning. He didn’t like being ordered into this tiny, clinical, sterile cell of misery with artificial light flickering intermittently. At the behest of his former employers, he had been forced to have his life discussed by this timid young psychology graduate. He watched as she clumsily leafed through the gigantic slab of paperwork on the table before her that represented the best part of his entire career. Ariel suppressed the urge to vent his frustrations at this young girl, who was merely doing her job.

“Fine” he replied calmly.

She scribbled some notes down that constituted significantly more than just ‘fine’. Ariel felt in control, given his previous experience, this felt somewhat of a mis-match. He could control the conversation, give her the bare minimum to report back to Mossad, and he would be gone. But perhaps he had underestimated her, for she now took an unexpected change of tack.

“I understand that you are frustrated by this process, is there a reason for that?” she asked curtly and with a touch of impatience.

“Well, I honestly don’t know what your superiors hope to do with this information” he replied.

“This is simply to ascertain your overall wellbeing.”

Ariel blurted out a laugh, he couldn’t help it.

“My wellbeing? That is interesting. You know, when I had to drive the 40 miles back to the border, having seen two of my colleagues die, in a beat up car, with a bullet in my left leg shattering my femur, they really weren’t concerned about me then. In fact I think they would have preferred me to stay with the others and get torn apart, or heaven forbid spend years in a basement in Beirut. So forgive me if I am surprised to learn that they suddenly care whether I’m having sleepless nights or not. Let’s face it we both know why they are interested.”

She ignored the last little barb that Ariel had added and pressed on. She had settled into this, had spotted the obvious vulnerability in him. The image of the tough intelligence officer had gradually faded the longer the interview went on.

“Have you spoken in detail about what happened with anyone?” she asked.

He stood up, leant on the walking cane that he carried everywhere before picking up the giant file on the table, waving it theatrically in the air and letting it slam back on to the table. Still standing, he raised his voice.

“Why should I? It’s all in there. Didn’t you read it?”

She didn’t look fazed by his behaviour. Ariel decided he liked her; she was keeping her cool while he was rather embarrassingly losing his. He was getting old after all.

“What are you doing for employment at the moment?” she asked, changing the subject.

“I was in private security for a while, but I guess it’s not for me. And now......well......you know its funny my mother always used to say to me ‘it’s a noble thing to follow in your father’s footsteps’, so finally I’ll take her up on that advice.”

“What did your father do for a living?” she enquired, genuinely interested.

He smiled, she was after all very young.

[-Xenon-]

Issac Silberman: The Hero of Hapoel

اسحق سيلبرمان : بطل هابويل

יצחק סילברמן: הגיבור של הפועל

“People used to say that my father was the greatest Israeli footballer of all time, mind you, they say it less and less these days, short memories of course. Do you know much about football? No? Well he was a midfielder and he was what they call in Europe a ‘cultured’ midfielder, never rushed, he used to play the game with elegance and poise. Bear in mind this is Israel in the 1970’s, nobody had ever seen anything like this before.”

“He was part of the legendary Be’er Sheva side in the 70’s, the one that won back to back championships. And believe me he ran that side, I mean, he would score 20 goals from midfield a season. Thank God for modern technology, I can watch all those fabulous goals that he used to score.”

“He eventually agreed to join Milan in Italy and he travelled to Tel Aviv to sort out the contract. But as you know these were as tough times as any for Israelis and on that day the PLO planted a car bomb in the city. My father happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and in an instant he was gone, the brightest player in Israel dead at 24, and myself, I was barely two years old.”

“My mother brought me up on her own, she never remarried and she told me as much as possible about my father. You would think that would make me want to become a footballer, but from day one I only ever wanted to join the army. I did at 18, never went back after my national service. From there I joined Shin Bet and eventually Mossad. The rest is buried in that file in front of you.”

There was something therapeutic about getting all of that off his chest and the girl was a willing listener. He never spoke about his father, and because of the nature of his work he actively distanced himself from such a famous name, but with time and the fact his career had come to an abrupt end, he felt the needed to bring himself closer to his father’s memory.

“Don’t you think your leg will keep you from playing football?” she asked.

“And my age! No, no I am going to do some coaching.” He replied, chuckling.

“Where?” she asked.

“Just locally, a youth team in the suburbs” he lied casually. She thought she had the measure of him, but he had a few tricks left. He kept his eyes from flickering, his voice from doing the same. They couldn’t know where he was going.

Finally it was over; he hobbled to his car wondering what the Mossad chiefs would think of his evaluation. Hopefully, not an awful lot. He climbed into the driver seat of his crummy old sedan. His bags were packed in the back seat. He had nothing else to stay for.

He started the car with not inconsiderable difficulty, it spluttered into life and pulled away.

Ariel Silberman was bound for the Lebanese border once again.

[tenthreeleader]

I hope you can keep this going, Xen. Great concept.

[simon07]

I really like this as a start, would love to see more of this.

[James O'Connor]

Really interesting stuff can't wait for more!

[-Xenon-]

Cheers guys

The Road To Beirut

الطريق إلى بيروت

הדרך אל ביירות

Driving through Lebanon, Ariel realised how much he actually liked the place. It was odd considering his only time spent there previously was during the month long conflict in 2006, a time that would stay with him forever, not just in the notes of the psychiatrist but also in the permanent limp caused by his re-constructed thigh bone. By Middle Eastern standards it was a country of great variety, but therein lay most of the problems. The scars left behind by the fighting that marked most of the 70s and 80s were still here to be seen. It was a country completely gutted by conflict and although Ariel was too young at the time of the worst of that fighting, he would yet have his share of the brief yet vicious struggle with Hezbollah.

He had taken the coastal road on his way to Beirut, and most of it looked like it had come straight out of a Mediterranean holiday brochure. Blazing sunlight, rocky landscapes and the piercing azure colour of the sea. It was a pleasant distraction from the fact that Ariel's car was threatening to expire at any moment. He had never exactly excelled at mechanics and had thought he had patched it up enough to at least get him to Beirut, however the odds were shortening at a fast pace on him being wrong.

He travelled through Tyre and Sidon which both held precious few happy memories and soldiered on up the coast towards the peninsula that jutted out towards the sea. He had been to Beirut only once previously, he had only seen it at night and in truth had spent most of that evening in a smoky makeshift interrogation room. It was a pretty place, a little tardy, but very much back on the up. Having said that, he knew better than most what dangers could lurk in the city, but as usual he was forgetting that he was now very much a civillian and as such should at least try and discard that permanent state of alert that is drilled into you in the intelligence service.

He arrived at the ground of Safa Beirut SC, his new employers. It was a small ground surrounded by apartment blocks and busy streets. It was currently in the process of having its pitch re-laid, half of the turf had been churned up. Ariel figured it would seat about 4,000 supporters, he had heard that at big games it would get near to capacity through the gate. He was met by the club chairman Ramzi Al-Mouzahi, a short plump man with greased back hair who shook him enthusiatically by the hand.

"Ariel, it is an honour to have you here at last!" Ramzi exclaimed.

"Thank you, I'm glad I made it at all, sorry about the car" Ariel's car was making a series of loud banging noises and was billowing thick black smoke that began to swirl around the pair of them. Ramzi waved his hand, he seemed the perpetually happy type, chatty, enthusiastic and generally good natured. Ariel noticed he was still having his hand shaked vigorously.

"I've forgotten how good your Arabic is." said Ramzi.

"Well 10 years in the construction industry took me around the Middle East, I picked it up very quickly" Ariel replied.

"Yes, yes. I suppose after 10 years it was a nice relief to go to America and do you masters degree in sports science?"

"I guess so, yes" Ariel lied. Not for the first time this day.

It was a fairly awful piece of deception but it had been so common place in Ariel's life that it sat reasonably well with him. He needed the fresh start too badly. He hoped to repay Ramzi with results on the pitch and he would plan for it like a military operation. Towering over Ramzi, he followed his new boss into the club's small office building.

He began the day being forced to dredge up his past, but here he was a stranger, the fresh start he longed for lay tantalisingly in front of him in the contract that Ramzi produce with an almost ridiculous flourish.