by Nathan Ronen
Eva shook Arik and he rolled toward the dresser next to him, extended a long arm and blurted out hoarsely, “Hello.”
“Arik Bar-Nathan?” asked an unfamiliar voice.
“Yeah,” Arik replied.
“This is Haim Bardugo, cabinet secretary. You’re invited to an emergency meeting at the Prime Minister’s Office in an hour.” Arik peeked at the clock: 1:00 a.m.
“What happened?” Arik exclaimed, waking up and sitting up abruptly in bed.
“I can’t explain it on this line. You’ll receive a full explanation here. Are you confirming your arrival?” the secretary asked.
“Yes, I am.”
The phone had woken up the baby, who burst out crying in the next room. Eva hurried to his room to soothe and breastfeed him.
Arik got out of bed in his underwear and went to relieve himself. Is this war? The thought flitted through his mind but he rejected it immediately, as he, more than anyone, would have known of such an alert. Was it some unknown military action that had failed, and the prime minister was bringing everyone together to come up with a plan on how to present it to the public? He began to shave and get dressed, mentally surveying the worst case scenario that might serve as a background to the unusual meeting.
Chapter 2
Kfar HaNagid Village, Near the City of Yavne
That same night, close to midnight, in the sitting room of his home in Kfar HaNagid village, near the city of Yavne, Reserve Army Major General Ben-Ami Cornfield, the long-serving director of the Mossad, was deeply ensconced in his old leather armchair. His curly hair was still full, but had gone gray. He was holding a large glass of water in one hand, and the daily intelligence brief in the other. The ground floor was very quiet, other than the sound of crickets in the large garden. Through the heavy wooden stairs curving up to the floor above him, he could hear the anchorman’s babble and assumed his wife had fallen asleep in front of the TV again.
He loved these hours, in which he was master of his own time. The scent of jasmine blossoms, mingling with the aroma of heavy soil, felt like home to him. He shifted his leg in the recliner, let out a moan of pain, and continued reading the latest intel from the Mossad’s Intelligence and Research Division. The document dealt with the threats and risks posed by Israel’s most bitter enemy—the Islamic Republic of Iran.
Cornfield was worried. He was mainly concerned with the winds of war that had been blowing lately in the government’s Security Cabinet. The spirit of hubris, characterizing the Israeli government on the eve of the Yom Kippur War in 1973, had once again taken root in the hearts of the members of the Security Cabinet. Once more, aggressive options for a military resolution regarding Iran’s intention of arming itself with nuclear weapons were being raised. Ben-Ami Cornfield, an experienced general and military strategist, watched with contempt as self-important ministers made media appearances, floating militant slogans intended primarily to forge a tough, defense-oriented image for themselves. Cornfield, who had evolved and matured during his term as head of the Mossad, had a different perspective on national security. For the first time in his life, he realized that the most important war was the one that was prevented.
Lately, Cornfield had also been concerned about the state of his health. His body, shattered in a traffic accident a decade ago, was bothering him. Phantom pains in the stump of his right leg, the result of being wounded in action, had resumed and were torturing him again, and his artificial eye, lost in a covert operation in the alleys of Gaza, was tearing uncontrollably, broadcasting signals of fatigue. He was nearing seventy, and was 100 percent disabled. Officially, he had passed the age of retirement from public service, but he refused to retire. It was important to him to complete a full five-year term in a dignified manner.
Cornfield was impatient with the overly detailed intelligence briefs sent daily for his perusal. He hated the analysts’ convoluted word games. On the one hand, he was annoyed by their attempts to evade a decisive line of thought. On the other hand, over time he had learned to appreciate the immense contribution that the research and intelligence personnel had made to the changes taking place in his evolving strategic vision.
Reading the brief exhausted him. He placed the glass on the dresser next to him and fell asleep in the depths of his oversized recliner, his large hand continuing to hold onto the booklet with the red cover, marked with bright yellow lettering: “Top Secret—For the Correspondent’s Eyes Only.”
It had been a year since he resumed his position, after a month of alcohol rehab in Florida. He remembered the rehab nights with loathing, as an ongoing nightmare, and did his best to repress the recollection. Nights of shivering, terrible nausea, a crazed pulse, loss of control, and delirious, terrifying hallucinations. He shuddered as he remembered the creatures crawling under his skin as he awoke, screaming, attempting to shake off the imaginary beings. His attendants had tied him to the bed, to protect him from himself, but they had not taken his size and physical strength into account, and he had injured himself when falling from the bed after tearing through the straps that had secured him to the bed.
Now he woke up in terror again, letting out a cry, covered in cold sweat and looking around in an attempt to understand where he was.
He calmed down once he realized he was in his home.
Since returning to work, he continued to visit his friend, Glenfiddich 21 Year Old Gran Reserva Whisky, which had a prominent position in the well-stocked bar of his country home, but only to inhale its aroma as a kind of spice of life. He was proud of himself for his self-control, and for passing the test of rehab, but, mostly, his recovery was inspired by his immense fear of the risk of blindness and the amputation of his other leg, as had happened to his father in his declining years, due to diabetes.
The buzz of the Red Line4 made him jerk in alarm.
“Cornfield here,” he declared thoughtlessly, his voice somewhat sleepy.
“Cornfield, it’s Haim Bardugo, cabinet secretary,” the voice said. “I’m afraid I have bad news.”
He felt the tingle of a chill running down his spine. “What happened?” he asked in apprehension, ready to sustain the shock of a painful update about a terrorist attack involving multiple casualties, or some of his team members failing in a covert operation.
“I’m sorry to tell you that the prime minister and a team of ministers and assistants were killed tonight in a failed attempt to land at a military airbase near Kiev, Ukraine.”
“What? When? How?” Cornfield cried out in fear and pain over the fate of the prime minister, his boss and good friend.
“As I’m sure you remember, he was traveling to the annual memorial service for the Jewish victims of the massacre in Babi Yar, near Kiev.”
“Who informed you?” Cornfield interrupted the explanation.
“Yoav Gad, our military attaché in Kiev. An Air Force investigative team is flying there immediately to find out what exactly happened. The Ukrainians claim that there was low visibility due to heavy fog on site, and the Israeli pilot, who was inexperienced in such weather conditions, had to land at a suggested alternate location. We have our suspicions about that version. Residents reported to the local police that they had seen a large flash of light in the sky about twenty miles east of Kiev, in the swamp area. At the moment, per our request, there’s a full suppression order on the subject. I’m summoning you to an emergency meeting that will take place in the government conference room at 2 a.m., chaired by Deputy Prime Minister, Mr. Ehud Tzur.”
“Tzur? Since when does that loser run the government’s emergency meetings?”
“Those are the attorney general’s instructions,” the secretary said, concluding:, “In view of the situation, he’ll probably be appointed as the acting prime minister.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Cornfield yelled in frustration, “after all, his ‘deputy to the prime minister’ title was just a po
litical trick to shut him up, a ceremonial honor to compensate for the prime minister breaking his promise to appoint him minister of finance. This isn’t right!”
“I grew up in the ranks of the state attorney’s office, and we have a joke there that ‘right’ is just the opposite of ‘left.’ There’s no relation between justice and the law, and definitely not between justice and politics.
“Besides, there are historical precedents for this kind of thing. Gerald Ford was appointed vice president by Richard Nixon after his predecessor, Spiro Agnew, resigned due to accusations of corruption, and just eight months later, Ford was appointed as president of the United States following Nixon’s resignation due to the Watergate affair. Through the wonders of the political process, a man who had barely served as vice president, and had never run for office, found himself appointed as president, as well.
“The military censor has been asked to take extreme measures to prevent a leak, but with social media, I don’t know how long we can keep it secret. For security reasons, the death of Prime Minister Lolik Kenan and the appointment of Acting Prime Minister Ehud Tzur won’t be made public until the bodies of the prime minister and his people are returned by the Ukrainians. It might take a few days,” Bardugo concluded.
“How long will he serve as acting prime minister? Don’t we need new elections?” Cornfield asked, clinging to the false hope that the bad news was merely temporary.
Bardugo calmly replied, “According to the Basic Law Regarding Government, an acting prime minister can be appointed to run cabinet meetings instead of the prime minister. If the prime minister is unable to carry out his role for over 100 days, the acting prime minister is appointed to the position on a permanent basis, with no need for new elections.”
Cornfield was distraught. His mainbrace was no longer. His appointer and supporter, throughout the organizational changes and reforms he had enacted in the Mossad, had been replaced by a man who had no personal commitment to Cornfield, had no part in the mutual loyalty of warriors who had fought shoulder to shoulder and been wounded on the battlefield.
“Shit! Shit!” he yelled in frustration into the space of the large house, hobbling on his crutch toward the bar. He desperately needed something potent and consoling and knew exactly where to seek it. He took out a shot glass and poured the amber liquid into it. However, this time, the aroma of the fine whisky severely nauseated him. Black spots swirled in front of his eye; he lost his balance and began to collapse, dragging the magnetic bottle down with him. In an attempt to stabilize himself, he grabbed on to a shelf, which was dislodged, causing all the wineglasses to shatter as they fell onto the floor along with him in a loud clamor.
His wife, Amira, woke from her sleep and ran down from the top floor, clad only in her underwear, fearfully shouting her husband’s name, “Ben-Ami?!”
She found him on the floor, his nose bleeding and staining his white shirt. He was holding his nose in pain, cursing quietly.
“What happened?” she asked, greatly concerned.
“I’m okay. Don’t make a big production out of it. I just got dizzy.”
“Do you want us to go to the hospital together to take care of your nose?” she suggested, bringing ice cubes wrapped in a towel from the kitchen and setting it against his bleeding nose.
“No. No way! An emergency government meeting is taking place in Jerusalem in less than an hour, and I have to be there.”
“What happened?” Amira asked.
“Lolik was killed!”
“How did it happen?!”
“Apparently a plane crash in Ukraine.”
“I can’t believe Lolik’s life ended that way…” Amira wept.
“That’s nothing! They’re appointing that loser son of a bitch Ehud Tzur as acting prime minister,” he mumbled in contempt, now completely oblivious to his pain.
“How are you going to drive like that? You’re bleeding all over… Come on, I’ll drive you. You’re in no state to be driving,” she said in genuine concern.
“No! I’ll call in my driver,” Cornfield said.
“Don’t. Let him sleep. It’s already after midnight. I’ll drive you.”
“No! Actually, I’ve decided I’m not going. I’d rather quit than work under that numbskull. You know how everyone laughed at him when he used a dirty trick to extort that title, deputy to the prime minister. The problem is that no one took it seriously, and no one understood its legal implications.”
Amira looked at him sympathetically, her heart full of pity for the large form sitting on the floor at her feet, bleeding. She stroked the stubble on his face and the curls on his head with maternal affection.
“Cornfield, listen to me carefully. Despair is not an action plan. You of all people should know that. You have six months to complete a full five-year term and retire from civil service. You’ve done an immense job protecting the nation up to this point. Finish the job in a respectable manner, and don’t get all pouty with anyone.”
Cornfield grunted something incomprehensible expressing his annoyance.
She straightened and looked around her. The shattered whisky bottle was emitting a sharp, sour scent.
“What is that smell? Did a liquor bottle break? Don’t tell me you…”
“No way!” Cornfield lied. “I tripped and fell on the bar.”
“Let me help you get dressed and we’ll go.”
She hugged him, putting her arm around his waist. Her head was barely as high as his chest. Her scent was pleasant, the touch of her body warm and soft. She grunted as she strained to stabilize him. He supported himself against the adjacent recliner in order to lift his large body.
He gazed into her pretty eyes, reflecting her genuine worry, and at her full breasts, which were still attractive, but his heart was elsewhere, and the future seemed bleak.
“Call me a cab,” he said, his voice weary.
* * *
4An encrypted line, for which the code is replaced every day.
Chapter 3
‘The Aquarium5’—The Prime Minister’s Office, Jerusalem
A week later, Arik Bar-Nathan, the prime minister’s intelligence and national security advisor and HIA Committee6 chairman, was summoned for a first work meeting with the acting prime minister. The shock that hit the Office after the plane crash in which former prime minister Lolik Kenan had been killed, followed by the announcement of his replacement, had reshuffled the cards in Arik’s hand. Kenan’s promise to appoint him as the next director of the Mossad following Cornfield’s expected retirement was now far from certain to materialize.
Arik didn’t like undefined situations in which he had no control. He excelled at improvising and finding solutions to operational complications, but in the Aquarium he felt like a tiny fly wrapped up in the web of the politicians’ alien world.
He waited in the vestibule outside the office of the acting prime minister for forty minutes after the appointed hour, only to learn from the receptionists’ gossip that the prime minister had been meeting with his party members since the morning. He was campaigning for their support in the upcoming elections he was planning to hold, in order to rearrange his coalition and the lineup of ministers in his government.
“I can see that you’re busy. I’m going up to my office. I’ll wait for a call from you. Let me know when the prime minister is free, and I’ll come down immediately,” he told the office manager, but she shook her head.
“No, you’ll wait here,” she pointed at several chairs in the corridor, “for a few more minutes.”
There was no point arguing or trying to speed things up. Geula, the office manager, was “the gatekeeper” of Ehud Tzur’s bureau. He had groomed her in his office while he was still a young attorney. Her loyalty to him bordered on zealotry, and he returned the favor by bestowing plenty of respect upon her and her large, extended family.
Arik rose to his feet, but the squat Geula smiled at him, winked and said, “Wait here. One brief little thing, and then you’re going in,” and ushered in the editor of Israel’s most popular daily newspaper. Arik noticed that the man strode in with blatant self-confidence.
The ways in which politicians conducted themselves always made Arik uncomfortable, although, as a working officer in Israel’s defense system, he had sworn his loyalty to the policymakers. Former prime minister Lolik Kenan had treated him with abundant respect due to his past as a great military leader and strategist. But the person appointed as the current prime minister was a professional politician for whom the concept of loyalty was flexible, changing in accordance with his current agenda.
Another half-hour went by, and the acting prime minister emerged into the corridor, embracing his sour-faced guest. The acting prime minister shook the editor’s hand firmly and told him, “I’m putting my trust in you. Give me a good tailwind to ride.”
“It’ll be okay,” the editor mumbled, looking utterly pale as he attempted to maintain the remnants of his self-respect.
From the corner of his eye, Ehud Tzur noticed Arik waiting for him in the lobby, his face flushed and mottled. He directed a little smile in his direction and disappeared again with Geula into the depths of his office.
Another fifteen minutes went by, and the Prime Minister’s Office manager emerged from his chambers and signaled Arik to go in.
“How are you, Arik?” Ehud Tzur asked with the hollow affectionate tone of a seasoned politician.
“I’m fine, thank you. Congratulations on your appointment, sir. Have you had time to read the detailed briefing I sent you, ‘The State of the Nation—Threat and Opportunity Scenarios,’ prepared by my people once you assumed your new position?”