Excerpt from Prologue in "Behind The Lies" a military thriller

The room is fifty feet below ground level to avoid electronic listening devices. Maps of the Middle East hang on all four walls. Each map is pock-marked with various colored pins and flags designating armies, suspected terrorists camps and civilian locations.

Three men sit at a round teakwood table built for four, their faces close enough to smell each other’s breath. Sweat pours off them even though the air conditioning is running on high. The room is a miasma of cigarette smoke laced with the aroma of strong coffee.

One of the men is young, green, wet behind the ears; what wisdom he has acquired has come from the three years of training he has recently concluded. The two others are older. How much older is hard to say. Their hard, fit bodies give no clue. Theirs is the kind of aging that comes with the acquisition of wisdom from the streets, the desert, the sea, the air. The kind of wisdom that comes from making too many life-and-death decisions, too frequently, too fast. The three share one common feature, that being that they are all what most people, untrained in surveillance, would define as ‘nondescript.’

After a long pause in the conversation, Avi Singer, the youngster, pushes back from the table and heaves a sigh. “Well, all I can say is, it feels like déjà vu to me.” He throws his head back, perhaps just a bit too dramatically.

Oh, great, thinks Shlomo Herzl, who has been assigned as Singer’s mentor. They think I am Strasberg? They send me Peter Falk? Singer, in fact, does look like a young but taller Peter Falk, looks like he sleeps in his clothes, looks like he’s been chewing on the unlit cigar in his mouth for days. He will make a good ‘katsa,’ a good field agent, Herzl knows – some day. A perfectionist, Singer soaks up languages like a sponge. He’s no zealot, and he’s not in it for the money, that’s for sure. His motivation is an unquestionable love of Israel. His acting abilities will hold him in good stead – some day.

Herzl’s eyes swing to those of Yosef Bergman. Bergman, who had once mentored Herzl as Herzl now mentors Singer. Though Herzl had been older at the time – he hadn’t joined Mossad until he was almost thirty. Herzl and Bergman eyeball each other in silence for a few seconds. Bergman barely nods. His nod clearly communicates, he’s your responsibility, and you speak for the both of us. So Herzl turns to the younger man.

“Avi.” He pauses, waiting him out, his eyes locked on those of his protégé. Singer finally gets the message and pulls his chair back to the table. “Avi,” Herzl starts again, “how can it feel déjà? You were not even born in ’81.” His aggravation shows.