Y

ehudit was aware she wouldn’t be staying in the infirmary indefinitely, but the day the guards escorted her to a regular prison cell was more difficult than she’d expected. When the door slammed shut and she heard the key turn in the lock, she fought tears.

Days and weeks passed. At least this cell had a small window through which she could watch the sky. It was a relief that the Iranians no longer bothered to question their stubborn prisoner, but boredom became a heavy burden.

Unexpectedly, the door opened. Yehudit cringed when she recognized the face of her dreaded interrogator. For the thousandth time she wondered if she could be mistaken about his identity. That woman who had followed her and Yuri Brenner referred to the prison guard as Yakub Farangis, but Yehudit remembered well his code name from the Mossad. Even after seeing the man so many times in Evin Prison, it was still beyond her ability to grasp that such an enemy could succeed in infiltrating Israel’s Secret Intelligence Service.

Zagreb stepped further into her cell. Yehudit backed further away. She had learned long ago not to trust him. It was obvious this man’s intention was only to break her will.

Yehudit’s tormentor leered with satisfaction. Holding a very senior position among the Iranian Revolutionary Guards meant he could do whatever he wished in this place without answering to anyone. Now he examined his prisoner with cold black eyes, pleased by her fear and amused to see her lips moving in prayer for protection.

Slowly he removed a thick manila envelope from a pocket hidden in his baggy trousers and held it out. “Take this!” he commanded.

Yehudit remained frozen in place, struggling to figure out what he wanted this time. What evil trick was up his sleeve?

Zagreb took a step forward, thrusting the envelope into her face. “Open it!”

In exasperation he finally tore open the envelope himself. The contents flew through the air before settling on the floor.

Yehudit gasped. Surrounding her were photographs of her family! She fell to her hands and knees, quickly gathering up the pictures, scanning each one hungrily before pressing it tightly against her heart. Benny! Tzipi! Gedalya, Mamme, Tatte! She didn’t recognize the background. When and where were they taken?