by Nathan Ronen
“We have to cause them to take this on due to an American agenda,” Major General Sharon said.
“I’ll take on looking into the subject with the Americans,” Arik said.
“Gentlemen,” the chief of General Staff concluded. “We don’t have a lot of time. The clock is ticking, but at the moment, we don’t have enough information to determine operation mode or zero hour. This evening, the Security Cabinet meeting will take place, and I’ll raise my reservations about the operation there. The moment a clearer picture emerges from all parties, including the American option, we’ll reconvene here.”
Chapter 12
Alexandria, Virginia
Arik returned to his office on the sandstone hill in a contemplative mood. Acting PM Ehud Tzur had asked for an Operation Entebbe-style military action, but as the data became clearer, it appeared that such an operation would be premature, and was still a ways away from being executed due to lack of operational capabilities or insufficient prep time. Landing Shayetet 13 naval commando personnel on the weapons ship when it was so distant seemed like a suicide mission.
The time had come to call and consult another old friend, the CIA director, who had also gotten his start with the naval commando, the American Navy SEALs. Arik sat down in his armchair and used his cell phone to dial Admiral Jack Derby at his home in the lovely city of Alexandria on the Potomac River, about a half-hour drive from his office in Langley. The last meeting between them had taken place as part of Arik’s previous role as the prime minister’s advisor on intelligence and national security.
The admiral’s voice sounded sleepy.
“Good morning, Jack, it’s Arik Bar-Nathan. I’m temporarily replacing Major General Ben-Ami Cornfield as Mossad director. I’m sorry about the hour. I hope it’s not too early for you.”
“It’s almost seven a.m. here. But for a friend who’s calling on an urgent matter, apparently it’s never too early. What’s going on, Arik? Where’s Cornfield? Rumors of your hasty appointment have made it all the way here.”
“Jack, I’m just a temporary stand-in. Our prime minister, like your president, has the right to appoint his staff, and that includes the next Mossad director. But I didn’t call you to gossip. I’m on borrowed time; I want to talk business.”
“Okay, shoot,” Derby said. “I’m all ears. But if it’s something classified you’d rather discuss on a secure line, why don’t I call my station at the embassy in Tel Aviv the moment you make it there?”
“You’re right. Maybe you better call me at your embassy in Tel Aviv. It’ll take me half an hour to get there. Call me on your encrypted Seagull network.”
“I’ll get organized and drive to my office. I’ll call you in an hour,” Derby concluded.
Chapter 13
The American Embassy in Israel
Like every Friday afternoon in Tel Aviv, young people were streaming to the big city en masse to enjoy its restaurants and entertainment centers on the beach. Therefore, the number of guards around the American Embassy, located on the coast of Tel Aviv, had been increased in order to prevent unauthorized drivers from using the large parking lot next to the embassy.
The tough Marine sergeant couldn’t understand why the black Audi 6 sporting Israeli plates was insisting on stationing itself in a parking spot reserved for diplomats on the eve of the Sabbath, of all times. He didn’t bother emerging from his armored control booth and only growled into his loudspeaker: “Go away!” It took several phone calls to the head of the CIA station at the embassy for the barriers blocking off the embassy’s parking lot to be lifted. The guard emerged from his cage to salute Arik apologetically.
The commander of the embassy guard, a tall, dark-skinned sergeant, came to meet Arik and accompanied him to the military attaché’s office, with two burly Combat Marines striding in his wake. He was asked to sit down and wait while the intimidating guards stood at taut attention across from him, their hands firmly affixed to the stocks of the gun at their waist. On the other side of the glass, Arik could see the civilian on duty at the CIA’s attaché waiting for instructions from the big boss in Langley, Virginia.
Within a short time, the embassy was flooded with military attaché personnel, headed by Colonel Doug Beretta. All of them knew their Israeli colleagues as a result of their ongoing collaborations. They were allies, but also “friendly rivals” who surveilled and were suspicious of one another, but also went out drinking together.
An hour after Arik Bar-Nathan’s conversation with Jack Derby, the phone rang in the secured conference room in the Tel Aviv post of the Central Intelligence Agency. Arik Bar-Nathan was taken into a glass cage whose walls were covered with lead curtains. The phone rang and the Marine answered, standing even taller in response to the high-ranking personality on the other end of the line: “Right away, sir! Yes, sir!”
He handed Arik the purple receiver of the encrypted phone. Arik asked him to switch the call to speakerphone and dismissed the soldier.
“Jack, I’ll give you the general outline. In less than twenty-four hours, an Iranian ship bearing a Panamanian flag is supposed to sail in from the Indian Ocean to the Gulf of Oman on its way to the Bab-el-Mandeb Strait, loaded with weapons and missiles designated for Hamas in Gaza, via the Sinai Peninsula.”
“Wow,” Derby said, sipping his morning espresso. “If you’re in need of a quick decision, we’re in trouble. Everybody’s already left for the weekend, and we’ll only be back to work on Monday morning.”
“Monday would be too late,” Arik said. “I’ve looked into it with our forces, and I believe that due to the distance and the logistic operations, it’s a bit too much for us to handle on short notice.”
“You’re right, of course,” Derby chuckled. “What are your expectations from me?”
“Jack, I’m considering the option of staging a big show in which Somali pirates are attacking the ship, so we can blame it on them. But I need your Navy SEALs to discreetly take over the ship. We also need to block the ship’s ability to transmit distress calls or inform anyone that it’s under attack. At the moment, I have photos of the ship’s cargo, and it looks like long-range SSM missiles. It’s the type of weapon we view as disrupting the status quo. Up till now, Hamas hasn’t had a weapon that could reach almost any point in Israel. As far as I’m concerned, after you take control of the ship, you can make it evaporate into thin air.”
“And what do you suggest doing with the ship’s crew?” Derby asked.
“Whatever you decide,” Arik Bar-Nathan said. “Usually, for tasks of this kind, the Iranians employ front corporations that rent old freight ships with a crew of sailors for hire from various countries. Give them a few thousand dollars, load them on a couple of lifeboats, and they’ll tell the world any story you want them to, including the tale that my grandmother attacked them while riding a street-sweeper. We just have to ensure their silence, if you know what I mean.”
“I get it. What’s the timeframe for execution?” Derby asked.
“Immediate,” Arik replied. “The ship is supposed to pass through the Bab-el-Mandab Strait on Sunday morning at the latest.”
“Wow.” Derby let out a whistle. “That won’t be easy. I need to update my president. I think he’s actually in Camp David with his family. Where will you be if I need to reach you?”
“I’ll wait for you here, in military attaché Doug Beretta’s office.”
An hour later, the head of the CIA called back following an urgent conversation with the American president’s national security advisor.
“Arik,” Derby said, “the president and chairman of our Joint Chief of Staffs have greenlighted the operation. But it will be a strictly American action, without involvement from you. I don’t want to see any Israeli submarines or vessels in the vicinity. We’ll handle electronic warfare issues, and deploy SEAL teams from the Nimitz in helicopters to the Apollonia. Is that all cle
ar and agreed upon so far?”
“Yes, sir!” Arik replied.
“Any material taken from the ship, including documents, weapons or missiles, will be transported to an American base in the area. We’ll decide what’s passed on to you and what isn’t. The commander on site will also decide the fate of the crew members, based on their behavior during the takeover. If they cause trouble, the great white sharks lurking in the area will be glad to receive an extra course for breakfast. Is that all clear and agreed upon so far?”
“Definitely,” Arik said.
“One more thing. This is our show. We’re coming in strong, directly, with no fairytales about ‘Somali pirates.’ I have a presidential order that states we’ll never allow anyone to convey North Korean missiles without retribution. Especially when it’s a nation trying to play it both ways with us. On the one hand, an attempt to reach an agreement in order to rid themselves of economic sanctions, while on the other hand, they continue to develop their nuclear weapons and distribute missiles, ammunition and knowhow to Iran. We estimate that following this operation, if we do indeed find what you’re saying we’ll find on the ship, the US will escalate the sanctions against Iran and North Korea, and we’ll add all of the heads of the Revolutionary Guard and their associates to the FBI’s Most Wanted List.”
“I understand,” Arik said.
“Arik, it’s important for me to emphasize, I’m entrusting you with my personal reputation here, even though officially you’re only an acting Mossad director. I need your promise and commitment that all members of your army’s General Staff, as well as the minister of defense and the prime minister, understand that Israel is stepping aside and not interfering here.”
“That’s entirely clear to me,” Arik said.
“And one last thing, and I’m sorry for being undiplomatically blunt,” Admiral Jack Derby said. “You Israelis have a tendency to blab yourselves to death and take credit for confidential matters you might or might not have been responsible for. I ask that your political echelon maintain complete confidentiality regarding Operation Apollonia.”
Arik hesitated, finally saying, “I’m sorry, Jack. I’ll convey the message, but I can’t guarantee the politicians will carry it out. It’s important to me that you understand that.”
Chapter 14
The Prime Minister’s Residence on 9 Balfour St., Jerusalem
Arik exited the parking lot of the American Embassy building on the coast of Tel Aviv, his vehicle crawling along the promenade, which was already jammed at this hour with celebrants filling the restaurants along the beach. The Mediterranean Sea was smooth and calm at this time of year. The reddish sky of the late sunset created a handsome framework for the spires of churches and mosques in Jaffa’s Old City, south of Tel Aviv.
He was hurrying to the prime minister’s residence in Jerusalem in order to report the latest developments to Ehud Tzur. The traffic jam along the Tel Aviv Promenade left him no choice; he activated the siren installed in his car, and affixed a blinking red-blue police warning light to its roof. The cars before him cleared a path for him, and he worked his way among them, turning onto Road 20 on his way to the Jerusalem Highway.
While driving, he called the person on duty at the Prime Minister’s Office and asked to set up an urgent meeting with Ehud Tzur, which was immediately confirmed. He then updated the chief of General Staff on the agreement with the Americans, using the encrypted Red Line installed in his car, and received his promise that all military activity was being officially canceled. The chief of General Staff would update the minister of defense. Last in line was the prime minister’s new military secretary, Major General Ami Oren. Arik apologized for calling his home after the Sabbath had commenced, and asked him to get to the prime minister’s residence and attend the meeting.
Due to the Sabbath, the capital’s streets were abandoned. The two of them arrived together, and entered the prime minister’s residence on Balfour Street in Jerusalem, where they were asked to sit down and wait for Ehud Tzur in the inner patio, displaying a garden of trees native to Israel.
Within a minute, the prime minister entered, wearing sweatpants and slippers. Arik rose from his seat. “A good Sabbath to you, Mr. Prime Minister. I came to report to you and let you know that the Americans will take action tomorrow morning to put an end to the affair of the ship Apollonia, and they’re conditioning it upon a promise of utter discretion from the Israeli government.”
“But that’s in complete opposition to what I asked you for. I wanted a big, glorious operation,” Ehud Tzur said with a searing look.
“I’m sorry, sir, as acting Mossad director, I’ve checked the prospects for the operation with all the pertinent agencies, and I have to inform you that according to my best judgment, we don’t have the capability to carry it out ourselves within this brief timeframe.”
“I’m very disappointed in you. This isn’t what I asked. I thought I could expect some special operational flash of brilliance from you, of all people,” Tzur complained.
Arik’s eyes were downcast like a scolded child’s.
“I just have one question for you and your officer friends at the General Staff,” Tzur began mockingly. “How is it that back in 1976, the State of Israel managed to carry out an illustrious military operation, 2,500 miles away from its border, when it sent out planes and a relatively small military force to rescue a hundred Israelis taken as hostages by terrorists and brought to Uganda, while thirty years later, the great, mighty, glorious IDF can’t provide me with an operational solution to take over a crappy freight ship sailing north from the direction of Bab-el-Mandeb, 1,500 miles from here?”
Arik tried to explain to Tzur all possible courses of action that had come up, including the ‘false flag’ operation, and the implications of each option. Ehud Tzur half-listened; obviously, his expectations were different.
“Sir, if you think I made a mistake,” Arik concluded, “it’s your right to fire me promptly from my role as temporary stand-in Mossad director, and to bring in your own candidate for the position earlier.”
Ehud Tzur was not pleased with this conclusion, but turned to Major General Oren, instructing him: “Tell the minister of defense and the chief of General Staff to halt all proceedings, but I want to see an analysis of our satellite photos of the American action. I don’t want to be caught by surprise when someone at the White House decides to change his mind just in order to make peace with the Iranians at our expense.”
He turned to Arik once more: “I don’t think I need to tell you that you’re done working for me. I’m very disappointed in you. You get that, right?” With these words, he put an abrupt end to the shortest term ever served by an acting Mossad director.
Arik was left utterly empty-handed. A week ago, he had been deposed from his role as the prime minister’s advisor on national security, and now he had also been deposed from his role as acting Mossad director and head of the Operations Administration.
He was out.
Chapter 15
The Apartment on 28 Yakinton St., Jerusalem
For the first time in his life since his childhood in Haifa’s Halisa neighborhood, which had been characterized by frail health, Arik felt rejected, like an outcast. He was experiencing a mourning of sorts. The bad decisions he had made in the past, breakups, loss, frustrations—all of them surfaced within him, streaming into this focused moment of loss of self-worth. He felt like an uprooted tree, suspended between heaven and earth, with no hold on stable ground.
He had not prepared himself for this moment, and therefore, was panic stricken. It was true that he wasn’t alone. Eva, who loved him just the way he was, was there, and for the last year, they had lived together harmoniously. The main challenge was accepting himself. He was seething with rage and frustration over his inability to bridge the gap between his ideal self and his actual self.
He was furious over E
hud Tzur’s betrayal and the inconceivable ease with which he had toppled down from his lofty position, not due to an operational failure, but because he had failed to provide the goods to a politician who just happened to be the supreme policymaker, as well as his boss.
On his way home, he tried to relax, listening to the distinct, throaty voices of the members of the Cuban band Buena Vista Social Club as they sang “Veinte años.” The song filled the space of his car. Arik sang along, excited as he anticipated seeing Eva again. Since he had always lived at the pace of a torpedo in stormy waters, she had always been a peaceful safe harbor for him.
He knew how to defuse the tension between them, and drove to the Arab village of Beit Safafa, south of Jerusalem, where there was a 24/7 shopping center. He bought fragrant strawberries; French Vanilla flavored Ben and Jerry’s ice cream with chunks of caramel, which she loved, and two bouquets of aromatic red roses.
He arrived home around eight p.m.
He felt the fatigue in his body. The recent tension between Eva and himself due to his decision to return to the Mossad had left its mark on him. He felt regret over the fact that for nearly two weeks now, they had been sleeping apart, she in their bed with the baby, while he was on the living room couch. She knew what she had given up when she left a tenured position as a professor of medieval theology and philosophy at Heidelberg University, one of the most prestigious universities in the world, all for him. But he was uncontrollably caught up in the tangle of scarred branches that was his past. He was also familiar with his thoughtless behavioral pattern when he was ill at ease—becoming defensive, taunting others, and escaping to the realms of sarcasm or silence, which protected him like a sealed-off armored shell.
He loved this woman and their young child, but had a hard time expressing it. Deep inside him, he knew that Eva and Leo were the sane shelter in his life. Eva was so different from him, yet completed him as well. Together, they were yin and yang. He had learned to appreciate her quiet, gentle temperament, her wise comments, her aesthetics, her humble nature and her fierce intellect.