by Nathan Ronen
“I’m sorry, I updated the acting prime minister on all pertinent issues when he entered office,” Amishav mumbled in an apology of sorts, his eyes downcast like a scolded child.
“Okay already, enough with all your military bullshit. Any chance that the operation will take place in the next couple of weeks, when I’m planning a visit to the United States?”
“Sir, you’re getting a little confused. I’m not in charge of commanding IDF. You need to ask the chief of General Staff and your minister of defense about that.”
“But you were the one who provided the specific intelligence information, right?”
Cornfield felt that he could not control his surging rage, and his entire body grew taut. He rose to his feet, towering above the acting prime minister, and thundered in his low voice, “With all due respect, sir, this isn’t a reality TV show. We’re not conducting an integrated military operation far from our own borders and putting our fighters at risk so that politicians can boost their image before the elections.”
Ehud Tzur examined him, his brown eyes cold and malicious, focused on their target like a cobra about to strike. But he came to his senses immediately, and with amazing self-control.
“Sit down and calm down, Cornfield. This is a work meeting, not war. Can I offer you something to drink? How about a shot of whisky?”
Cornfield knew his rival was prodding at his old wound. His past affection for the hard stuff was well known. Did Ehud Tzur not know that he had been to rehab, or was he ignoring this fact on purpose in an attempt to taunt him?
“Look,” Cornfield tried to educate Tzur, “intelligence warfare consists of informed use—overt or covert—of the arsenal of tools at your disposal: guile, disinformation, and strategically misleading your rival. I think that so far, we’ve succeeded quite well in our war against our enemies.”
“Succeeded quite well? I haven’t heard a lot about your activity in the last six months,” Tzur taunted him once more.
With the remainder of his patience, Cornfield said, “Respectfully, sir, since you took on the role, you’ve been busier with chopping the heads of the people in your office and in the defense system than with allowing us to kill terrorists.”
“So… should I pour you a shot or not?”
“I don’t drink anymore. Thank you. I’d be happy for a cup of black coffee and some cold water.”
Ehud Tzur examined Cornfield with a predatory gaze and saw an exhausted man before him. The mercy of victors spread through him. The politician gods had smiled at him, and he was now the boss of this overgrown man, the decorated general, the old-time war hero. However, he soon resorted to his usual demeanor, scolding Cornfield as one scolds a child.:
“Cornfield, I’m not the first person looking for an image boost to enhance my status as Mr. Security, and I won’t be the last. What do you think Prime Minister Begin was doing when he bombed the nuclear reactor in Iraq right before the 1981 elections? Why do you think the Shavit missile was launched on the eve of Ben Gurion’s election to the Knesset? Or why did Chairman Mao Zedong declare the ‘Cultural Revolution’ and talk about ‘letting a hundred flowers bloom’ in Communist China in 1966? Do you think he suddenly became a liberal democrat? I’m sure it’s obvious to you that he only did it so all the dissidents would pop their heads up, so he could eliminate them. Isn’t that politics at its best?”
“So politics at its best is a policy of double-crossing and hypocrisy?” Cornfield mocked.
“No, politics is the art of balancing internal and external policy needs, operative flexibility and room to maneuver that allow making concessions or deals far from the public eye. It’s an art that requires sophistication, guile, tact, wisdom and patience. Have you ever read or heard of The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli?”
Cornfield’s baffled facial expression indicated that he had not.
“That book is my bible. To make a long story short, it specifies all the qualities you lack.”
A tense silence filled the room, and Cornfield felt he had gone over the line.
“Sir, my role is not to please you, but to bring you the information that a prime minister needs to know in order to make decisions and determine policy.”
“But you are directly subordinate to me,” Ehud Tzur challenged him.
Cornfield looked at him with amusement. “That’s right, I’m subordinate to you, but I’m not a rookie. And I don’t poke my nose into what’s happening in your air-conditioned offices in Jerusalem. I recommend that you just let me do my job, and I’ll let you do yours. And don’t forget, I’m one of the gatekeepers of this country’s security, and not the keeper of your country estate.”
Anger surfaced in Tzur’s voice. “I’m afraid you’re a bit confused there, Mr. Cornfield. I am your boss. I’m the one who gives you orders, and not the other way around. My job is to manage you, and you owe me your loyalty. Is that clear, General Cornfield?”
Cornfield tried to remain businesslike. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re still not ready for that operation. When I have some new updates for you, I’ll come see you with the chief of General Staff, before the Ministerial Committee Forum on Defense Matters, in order to get a green light. These things should be done slowly and with due consideration. It’s true that we’re constantly tracking the ship…”
“And…” Here the acting prime minister lost his patience.
“And… ultimately, naval commando warriors are the ones who have to land on a ship in the heart of the sea, and this has to be thoroughly coordinated with the Operations Directorate, the Navy, the Air Force and others in order to prevent any sort of mishap. We also need support and coordination from the Americans, Mr. Prime Minister.” He could not hold himself back, spitting out the title mockingly. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to see mass funerals for commando fighters on the eve of your elections.”
“As I’m certain you know,” the acting prime minister told him in a low, chilling voice, raising his finger in a defiant gesture in front of Cornfield’s eye, “everyone but the dead in the cemetery has a replacement.” With these words, he exited the room, with his military secretary slinking out in his wake.
* * *
9 Proverbs 11:14.
Chapter 6
The Military Secretariat in the Prime Minister’s Office
Cornfield remained seated in his chair, stunned. The realization struck him. His glory as a daring warrior had left behind only a faint trail. Once a covert warrior who was loyal to his country, whose fingerprints could be found on any one of the Mossad’s intrepid operations in the last four and a half years, he had currently become a pathetic pawn on the politicians’ chessboard. It was now imperative to him to complete his entire term with no blemishes. His hands were shaking, his breathing rapid. He continued to sit alone in the small conference room in the Prime Minister’s Office in order to gather his strength. He needed some strategic intelligence, the Essential Elements of Information briefing, and a bit of juicy gossip about what was going on behind the scenes in the most influential office in the country, and he knew who would provide them.
Cornfield entered the office of Major General Amishav, which was located outside the Aquarium, and was surprised to find him and his secretary taking down pictures from the walls and packing mementos in cardboard boxes.
“Are you moving to a larger office?” Cornfield asked.
Amishav looked at him as if asking, do you not know, or are you just pretending?
“What’s going on, brother, open up!” Cornfield told the major general, who looked like a wilting flower.
“Cornfield, you really don’t know? I feel like a man who’s been cuckolded. Like the entire city knows his wife has been cheating on him, and he’s the last to find out. Everyone’s known for a week now that immediately when Tzur entered office, he agreed with the chief of General Staff and the minister of defense on my replacem
ent, but no one bothered to tell me until this morning.”
“You knew this when he was sitting with us at the meeting?”
“I did. He told me a few minutes before you arrived.”
Cornfield shook his head in disbelief. Ever since the previous prime minister had disappeared abruptly from the scene, all those holding positions of trust around the new prime minister had been replaced at once. Ehud Tzur began to fill the gap with his close associates and past assistants, who had been promoted overnight from lurking in the shadows behind the scenes to policymakers.
The most active in this regard was Geula, the office manager, who sometimes conveyed the message that if people just ran things through her, everything would work out for the best. In the new bureau, she was the alpha bitch, the tarantula who pulled the strings and spun the web of those faithful to her new boss.
“All of Prime Minister Kenan’s close associates received an email this morning alerting them of a hearing preceding termination within a week,” Amishav added. “It didn’t take Ehud Tzur long to grow a pair. He’s been in office for less than a week, and already he, and especially his secretary, are taking revenge on anyone who belittled them and humiliated them in the past.”
“So… do you have the time to talk to me?” Cornfield asked tentatively.
Amishav nodded and sat down. He indicated to his secretary that she should exit the room and leave them on their own.
“What’s going on here?” Cornfield asked.
“Acting Prime Minister Ehud Tzur is intending to go to elections in another six months or more, in order to be elected in his own right. He doesn’t want to dwell in the considerable shadow of his predecessor. But just between us, he’ll soon discover that Knesset members are in no hurry to kill the goose that lays golden eggs, and coalition members are putting pressure on him to delay the elections until their scheduled time in two years.”
“If I’m not mistaken, in the previous elections, only two years ago, Ehud Tzur came in at number twenty-eight, nearly the last place, in his party’s primaries,” Cornfield said.
“You have to understand that nothing interests Ehud Tzur today other than the goal he’s set for himself. Legally, he’s still the acting prime minister, and so he’s working opposite the party leaders in the Knesset day and night. Recruiting support, promising jobs, honors, ambassador positions abroad, appointments as a minister without a portfolio or as chairman of a government board of directors, handing out budgets to yeshivas and religious institutions, picking out non-profits associated with the parties and allocating budgets for them. These days, everything here at this office has ground to a halt and been subordinated to that purpose alone. He’s brought Arthur Schein, the spin doctor, over from the States. Schein is charging an excessive fee from Tzur’s associates abroad, and Ehud Tzur doesn’t go anywhere without him. As I understand, the spin doctor is demanding that he take a press photographer with him wherever he goes, to provide photo ops that will establish his image as a leader.”
“You don’t say,” Cornfield mumbled in disbelief.
“The Government Press Office, along with a private branding firm, is bombarding the Israeli press with communications intended to build him up as ‘Mr. Security,’ since the survey they had conducted discovered that this is the issue that interests Israelis most.”
Cornfield blurted out a curse in an incomprehensible language, somewhere between Bulgarian and Arabic.
“Did you see the new photo of the prime minister included on the eve of the holiday in the daily papers? Did you see the battery of phones on his desk, including secured red lines? They weren’t even connected. The media advisor wanted to send out the message that the new Mr. Security is in control, and for that purpose, he copied the phones on the American president’s desk.”
“As far as I remember, Lolik Kenan never allowed political considerations to supersede defense matters, even if it did result in numerous battles within his party,” Cornfield said, sentimental and nostalgic. “Lolik understood the real difference between a leader and a manager.”
“You’re as naïve as a twelve-year-old virgin, Cornfield my friend. Things look different from here, and even the prime minister, your beloved Lolik, whom we both appreciate so much, was a master of the dirtiest political tricks. He was simply excellent at concealing it. He knew how to subordinate ideology and values to the circumstances. He, too, betrayed those loyal to him once they were no longer of use to him and banished them from his sight. Lolik would grow quickly bored with his closest associates and would propose that people ‘find some other school to graduate from’ in order to bring in someone he saw as possessing a fresh, interesting perspective.”
“I don’t believe that,” Cornfield blurted out bitterly.
Amishav couldn’t control his emotions, continuing to speak his mind. “On the morning preceding the elections, Tzur will assume a regal pose and call for national unity. He’ll invite the opposition to join him, to come together around his leadership, and promise Israelis success and abundance. Something along the lines of: ‘Your circumstances have never been better. Look at all the financial crises in the world, while our economy is flourishing.’”
Cornfield looked at Major General Amishav with wonder. He had never seen his friend so furious. So disloyal to the system. He was obviously deeply hurt. Neither of them doubted the prime minister’s full right to choose his own assistants for positions of trust. However, the way in which Major General Amishav and other aides at the Prime Minister’s Office had been deposed had already fired up an entire batch of home-grown enemies, ones who would betray him or seek revenge.
“And even within the Holy of Holies, the Mossad Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, he’s about to appoint someone who apparently did some shady business with his American friends, and the same will soon be true for the head of the Shin Bet10!”
“Who is it?!” Cornfield yelled out.
Amishav drew closer and whispered the name in his ear.
“That pretty boy? No way! We have to stop this,” Cornfield said determinedly.
“Tzur is such a son of a bitch that if Dante Alighieri had known him, I believe he would have invented a whole circle of hell just for him in his Divine Comedy,” Amishav whispered.
Cornfield looked at his friend and said, “My father taught me a Bulgarian proverb: ‘Never go to bed angry. Stay up at night and plan your revenge instead.’”
* * *
10 The Shin Bet, also known as Shabak, the General Security Service (Hebrew) or Israel Security Agency (English), is Israel’s internal security service charged with defending Israel against terrorism and espionage.
Chapter 7
The Acting Prime Minister’s Office
“Geula!” the acting prime minister yelled over the intercom. “Check whether Arik Bar- Nathan showed up for work today. And if he didn’t, get hold of him and tell him to come here as soon as possible.”
“You called me, sir,” Arik said as he was abruptly shown into the acting Prime Minister’s Office, where Tzur was sitting with the new military secretary.
“I’m releasing Cornfield from his role, and I want you to step into the Mossad in the meanwhile as a temporary stand-in…”
“What? Cornfield? When?” Arik asked, baffled.
“You wanted to be director of the Mossad—well, here’s your chance. You never know! Sometimes you step in as a temporary replacement, and suddenly fate has a different idea in mind.” Tzur smiled. “I’m not just putting you in there for no good reason. By the time the man I intend to appoint as Mossad director enters office, and by the time it’s confirmed by the government recruitment committee, headed by a Supreme Court judge, and the cabinet, two months will have gone by, and I need you there in order to handle the Iranian weapons ship for me.”
“I’m not fluent in the details,” Arik said. “I’ve been
here at the Prime Minister’s Office as the intelligence and national security advisor for a little over a year, so I’m out of the loop on all routine operational matters at the Mossad.”
“I’ll be honest with you. I need a major defense accomplishment that will be credited to me. I need to build up my defense portfolio. I need something big and daring. Something like Operation Entebbe, with good photo ops. Something the entire global media will be talking about. Who knows? Maybe if it goes down really well, I’ll relinquish the good services of this guy I’m currently thinking of as head of the Mossad, and you’ll just stay on in the role. What do you think?”
Arik was astonished. He wasn’t used to a display of values resembling those of a byzantine court. It wasn’t as though the Mossad was utterly devoid of power struggles and intrigue, but Tzur’s request to help him in crowning himself with laurels that were not rightfully his crossed the line, as far as he was concerned.
“Sir, it would be presumptuous of me to tell you ‘no problem’ at this stage and take on the operation with false promises. It wouldn’t be serious. Give me a few days to look into the subject and the operational probability, and I’ll get back to you on this.”
“You might single-handedly lose the greatest prize that every senior Mossad operative dreams about…” Tzur once again dangled the bait in front of Arik’s appalled face.
“As I said, sir, I’ll look into the topic with all the pertinent agencies and get back to you. I ask that during the cabinet meeting, you confirm my appointment as acting director of the Mossad, so that I’m covered legally.”
“Okay,” the acting prime minister agreed, signaling the new military secretary to take care of the procedural details.
“As far as I’m concerned, loyalty is the most important thing,” Ehud Tzur declared firmly, gazing directly at Arik.
Arik remained silent. Everyone knew that Tzur’s way to the top was strewn with loyal people he had tossed aside the moment he didn’t need them anymore. If all the people who had been loyal to him wrote one page on Tzur’s ingratitude, there would be enough pages for an entire encyclopedia.