Chapter 16: From the Mossad with Love: The Secret Agent with the License to Disappear

In Tinderland, every second man is a "CEO", every third man is an "entrepreneur at heart", and everyone else is a "lover of life".

But then D arrived.

No picture (just a silhouette of a back on the beach at sunset, a classic for divorced people), no full name, and no profession. The description only said:

My instinct said: Swipe left, Yael. It must be a Walt messenger who is ashamed of his uniform. But curiosity... oh curiosity. It killed the cat, and it's on its way to killing my evening.

Coordination Phase: Operation Entebbe

Making a date with him was more complicated than getting an appointment for an MRI.

"Where are we meeting?" I asked innocently. "I'll send you a photo an hour before," he replied. "Photo? Are we on a jeep trip? All coffee in Tel Aviv." "I can't take any chances. There are places that burn me." In the end, I received an encrypted message (on WhatsApp, yes? Not on Telegram): "A cafe in the old north. Corner table. I'll be wearing a light blue shirt and tie."

The Encounter: The Man Who Knew Too Much (and Said Nothing)

I arrived. He was sitting there, with his back to the wall and his face to the door. A well-known tactic of people who have left the institution or of people who are afraid that their ex-wife will come in. He looked reasonable. 50 shades of gray in his hair, sunglasses (in a cafe, in the evening), and the look of someone who carries the weight of the world, or at least the weight of the mortgage, on his shoulders.

"So..." I began, trying to break the dry ice. "What do you do that's such a state secret?" He smiled a thin, enigmatic smile. "Things that happen in the shadows." "Oh, I get it. You check plumbing?" He didn't laugh. "It's complicated. Let's put it this way, I make sure you can sleep peacefully at night." "I sleep peacefully mostly when the air conditioner is on and the neighbors aren't doing karaoke. Do you fix air conditioners?"

And so the great guessing game began. For an hour, instead of having a conversation, we played the Shin Bet version of "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?" I threw out options, and he just shook his graying head:

• "Are you an Iron Dome developer?" (mysterious smile).

• "Are you Bibi's security guard?" (dramatic sip of coffee).

• "Are you responsible for the reactor in Dimona?" (raised eyebrow).

• "Are you the one who decides when to raise fuel prices?" (a deafening silence).

The cross-examination

At some point, he got tired of being the target, and he turned the tables. But it wasn't "What about you, Yael? What do you like to do?" No. It was a Level 5 security debrief. "Tell me about your agenda," he demanded, his eyes scanning me as if he were looking for a listening device. "Do you have any connections abroad? A foreign passport? How often do you fly to Turkey?"

I tried to tell him about the blog, about life, about the fact that I was looking for love and not an accomplice to a crime. "Interesting," he interrupted me when I mentioned my daughter. "What unit did she serve in? Does she have access to sensitive databases these days?" "She's a graphic designer," I replied dryly. "The most classified thing in her life is the password to her pajamas, and she probably wouldn't give it to anyone, not even under torture."

He nodded seriously and made an imaginary note in his mind (probably under the "Potential forgery of documents" section). I felt like if I ordered an almond croissant now, it would go into my personal file under "Suspicious consumption habits."

The fading away

Then, just as I was in the middle of guessing whether he was a double agent or just watching too much Netflix, his phone vibrated. He glanced at it, his face serious (even more). “I got a call. Things are heating up,” he whispered. “My coffee is actually getting cold,” I pointed out. “I have to get going. The country is calling.”

He stood up, put down a 50-shekel bill (without asking for change, because secret agents don't wait for change), put his sunglasses back on, and disappeared into the humid Tel Aviv night.

I was left there alone, with half a head turned and an unsolved mystery. Did I date the Israeli James Bond? Did I meet the next head of the Mossad? Or maybe, just maybe, did I date an IRS tax assessor who just really, really loves drama?

We will never know. The case was closed due to lack of public interest (mine).

Next

Chapter 16: From the Mossad with Love: The Secret Agent with the License to Disappear