Between the tomatoes and eggplants in my local supermarket yesterday, just as I finished loudly blowing my nose and cursing my recent allergy attacks, an elderly woman approached me and tapped my shoulder. "Good for you," she said. "You showed those Arabs."
I nodded in agreement, quickly put away the tissue and straightened my back. After all, my new position as a high-ranking Mossad agent requires a certain dignified mien.
The first phone call came at 8 A.M., when my mother asked gently if I had recently been abroad. Then others called, congratulating me on the outstanding cover story I'd chosen as Haaretz education correspondent, and asking why I hadn't brought them cigarettes from the Duty Free in Dubai.
Walking the streets, I noticed people were looking at differently - or at least that's what I told myself.
My wife, of course, was less impressed by my appearance in newspapers the world over as "Kevin Daveron," a supposed Irishman named by Dubai police as commander of the assassination squad sent to eliminate Hamas strongman Mahmoud al-Mabhouh at his hotel in the emirate.
She wasn't moved by the congratulatory phone calls or public adulation. Nor was her mind set at ease by the Government Press Office pass I produced from my wallet, which confirms beyond a doubt the uncanny similarity between my appearance and Daveron's.
I even told my little girl about Daddy's new job - it'll probably win her some points at day care. It will be interesting to see what people say on Parents' Day.
I never wanted to be a Mossad agent, but if I've already joined that vaunted organization, I'm glad to have leapt straight into a commanding position. It has many advantages and, for now, few obligations. Yes, I'm starting to thoroughly enjoy my imaginary profession.
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