exit trouble

So… I’m at the airport in Tel Aviv, business completed, and they don’t want me to leave. I’m grilled for an hour and a half by three different security staff, ending up with the supervisor. No-one believes my story and, to be honest, I can’t say I blame them… I’m so vague with my answers, I begin to doubt my own reasons for being there in the first place.

So, why did you deliver the package yourself, when it could have been sent via UPS?
Er… I’m not sure. I know that my company wanted the CDs here first thing on Saturday morning, so that the firm we’re dealing with could start work.
But it’s the Sabbath — we don’t work on Saturdays… do you know the address of the company?
Er, sorry, no.
So where did you meet them?
At my hotel.
Do you have proof that you stayed at the hotel?
Sorry, no.
Did you have proof of receipt of the package?
Sorry, no.
Did you get a business card from your contact?
Sorry, no.
Do you have a business card?
Yes, but it’s got the wrong address on.
Why?
Because we’ve recently moved.
Do you have proof of your new work address?
Sorry, no.
How long have you lived in the UK?
Twenty-one years.
So why don’t you have a UK passport?
Dunno, really — just never felt the need to get one.
So, have you been to Tel Aviv before?
Yes! I was here two years ago.
For what purpose?
To visit a friend.
Did you visit your friend this time?
No.
You have a friend here, and you didn’t visit him?
No, I don’t have his phone number.
He’s your friend, and you don’t have his phone number?
Sorry, I know it sounds silly, but no.
Why did you travel here when you know there’s trouble in this region?

And so on and so on, round and round in circles. They take me into a room to search me, take away my PDA and mobile phone for half an hour, and finally escort me to the gate, ensuring I don’t talk to anyone on the way. Duty-free shopping is out the window. I imagine I’m now being tracked by Mossad.