It was 1977, it was still Calcutta when one evening my father came from a trip to Delhi with a book in his briefcase. A book which had a man wearing a strange hat (which I later came to know to be a kepi) with the crosshairs drawn around his head. The Day of the Jackal kept me up till 1 in the morning, the final three chapters read in the bathroom so that the lights would not disturb my sisters, and I spent the next few days in a daze, still marvelling at the details. That copy of The...
Monitoring Antisemitism Intel
