by Nathan Ronen
Motke Hassin’s expression conveyed his bafflement.
“Come on, do you remember that blond pilot who would fuck all the prettiest female officers at HaKirya Base? The one they’d joke about in the General Staff, saying he’d wake up in the morning, look in the mirror, and blow a kiss at his reflection, like Narcissus in Greek mythology?”
“Izzo Galili? Are you kidding? But that son of a bitch is crooked. Everyone knows he took advantage of his position as Air Force head of staff to forge connections with American companies, then began to work as their representative immediately when he left IDF, after serving as head of the Military Intelligence Directorate. The day after his discharge, he was already representing Natek Company in negotiations with our defense system, and getting a hefty American salary.”
“Those are just rumors,” Cornfield insisted on maintaining his image of the defense system as the only system free of leadership corruption in Israel. “That’s just the sort of malicious gossip that could be used to frame any one of us.”
“You’re really a child,” Motke Hassin said, holding a tempura tiger shrimp with the hook of his hand and dipping it in garlic sauce. “Have you heard of Rami Dotan, the former head of the Air Force’s equipment fleet who was convicted of taking bribes from American companies? And do you know which minister of defense authorized Galili’s appointment as the representative of the American weapons and aeronautics company in Israel working as a sole supplier for the Ministry of Defense without a bid?”
Cornfield shook his head. He was still filleting the tiny red mullets with his large hands, squeezing half of a fresh lemon over them.
“Your esteemed friend, Lolik Kenan. The one who was later elected prime minister and appointed you as Mossad director,” Hassan replied victoriously. “Lolik was a son of a bitch too, just as much as the rest of them. Everyone knows this Galili guy is Tzur’s best friend. Both of them are cigar aficionados and fans of the good life, Israeli jetsetters and socially active in the ‘one percent,’ good friends with the ten families that rule the Israeli economy. Now I understand why he’s bringing him in.”
“I don’t get it, He already has everything. How else can he benefit from being head of the Mossad? Even a billionaire can only eat lunch once a day.”
“Oh, Cornfield. You always were an innocent, ignorant muzik.” Hassin raised a third glass of frozen ouzo, downing it in one gulp. “Those who have money always want more.”
“You’re wrong. A muzik is a Russian farmer, and I’m Bulgarian by origin,” Cornfield corrected him.
“But you’ve maintained the innocence of a country bumpkin. You’re lucky your wife Amira has kept an eye on you. I’m all alone. No one watches my back. I lost my shirt to those slippery characters. My bitch of an ex-wife got remarried and now lives in the San Fernando Valley in LA with her young lover.”
“If what you’re saying is true, we have to stop it,” Cornfield said passionately.
“Ben-Ami Cornfield, my friend, revenge should be served cold. We need proof, data and facts. Let me work on it with friends who are still serving in Shin Bet and the police’s Fraud Unit. When you want to catch a tiger, you have to be patient; otherwise the hunter becomes the hunted. We have to cook up an evidence file that’ll comply with the state attorney’s requirements.”
Cornfield sighed. Creativity had never been his strong suit.
Chapter 18
Kfar HaNagid Village
A week later, in his humble home near the village secretariat, Ben-Ami Cornfield sat listening, along with his wife Amira, to an interview conducted with him on Israeli public radio, marking his departure from office. The interview was being broadcast on a Saturday morning weekly news show.
“In light of the grave concern with which my friends and I view the current state of the nation, with its problematic leadership, and the increasing influence of financial considerations on the regime, we feel that we have to take action.”
“Do you intend to enter the political arena?” the interviewer asked.
“I’m not ruling it out.”
“Why are you personally attacking the new prime minister?” the interviewer asked, with mock innocence.
“Because I believe there’s a crisis of leadership here, a total disregard for the public. People might think my views on this are too extreme. I’m telling you, from up close, it looks even worse. What the prime minister’s people think has nothing to do with what they say, and what they say has nothing to do with their actions, and whatever they’re doing or will do or have said or thought at any given moment—hinges entirely on what they can get out of it, on their will to survive and the profitability of their action at that moment, with no regard for truth or public interest.”
“What does that mean?” the reporter asked.
“I had the chance to work with some degree of proximity to the highest political echelon of the State of Israel—prime ministers, ministers of defense—and I’ve seen all kinds of leaders. I can tell you that in regard to all of them, I always had a feeling that at the moment of truth, when considering the country’s best interests versus their own personal agenda, they would favor the national agenda.”
“You sound concerned,” the reporter said. “Should we be concerned as well?”
“Yes,” Cornfield decreed.
“The members of the Prime Minister’s Office I talked to claim in response to your statements that you too number among the cigar-smoking hedonists, and that you yourself have gone through rehab for alcohol dependency last year. Would you care to respond to that?” the reporter asked.
“It’s true. I do like cigars, and I admit that in the past, I was a drinker, too. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. I drank to ease the pain of my injuries and my loss of limbs. This ugly leak indicates that the staff of the Prime Minister’s Office prefers to attack the man instead of dealing with the issue. Personally, I feel nostalgic for other times, and especially for other leaders. I’m not naïve. I assume every leader has his weaknesses and his strengths, but my impression is that for quite a while now, our leaders have not been role models, and to me, that’s one of the most important traits of leadership, one that ultimately causes people to follow a leader. But this leader is obsessed with his image and with fake news.”
“That was an unnecessary declaration of war,” Amira said sadly as she listened to the interview. “Did you have to challenge Ehud Tzur head-on?”
“You’re right, darling. I should have kept my mouth shut and begged to be appointed as the Israeli ambassador to Iceland or some distant island in the Pacific. You know very well that I couldn’t stay silent in view of what’s going on.”
“You should have thought of us too,” Amira said in complaint. “You’re not alone.”
“My dear, as long as I was part of the system, running the Mossad, I was busy mainly with my endless daily responsibilities: handling threats, alerts, terrorist attacks and operations, managing things, being in command, making sure these operations happened and succeeded. Although I also dedicated lots of time to thinking strategically and considering complex policy matters. But it’s actually now, when I started to spend time with you and the family, that I’ve been more and more troubled by the question of what kind of country my children and grandchildren will inherit. Have I really contributed to ensuring this country will be a place where they want to live, a place they’ll be proud of?”
The sound of the doorbell rang all through the house.
“Are you expecting someone?” Amira asked, walking to the door.
“Motke Hassin said he’d bring a few guys over this morning to discuss the situation,” Cornfield said, and Amira knew this was her signal to take off and not interrupt the boys’ conversation.
The men filing into the living room included former Shin Bet head Uri Dinur from Kibbutz Dorot; former chief of General Staff Lieutenant General Menachem (Mendy) Av
azi; former military secretary Major General Amishav,; Eli Wasserman, Lolik Kenan’s political advisor; Yair Zipori, the former general commissioner of Israel Police; and Shlomo Zimmer, Cornfield’s faithful office manager.
“I also invited Moshik Levin, the former head of the National Security Division, but he’s late. He’s recently moved with his new wife to a community settlement called Harait in the Galilee, and he’s stuck on Highway 6.”
“I heard your interview on the radio this morning on the way here,” said Uri Dinur. “I liked it.”
“That was a hell of an interview,” Avazi said. “That’s exactly how I feel. Like they’re stealing the country out from under us.”
“You know, I have a lot of free time on my hands, so at night I watch a lot of National Geographic shows on TV,” Motke said. “Do you know how people find water in the savanna of the Kalahari Desert in Africa?”
Cornfield shrugged.
“The Bushmen know that baboons always have some secret water reservoir they drink from. So he tricks a monkey and catches it…”
Cornfield exhibited signs of interest. “How?”
“He walks over to an old termite nest, and using a stick, digs a deep, narrow hole inside it. The nest is located across from the baboon settlement. It’s well known that the baboon is a very curious monkey, and the Bushman makes sure he’s digging the pit right in front of the monkey’s curious eyes. He conceals some melon seeds in there, hides behind a tree and waits patiently.”
“And…” Cornfield said impatiently.
“A short while later, the monkey gets curious and wants to know what the man hid in that hole and thrusts his hand in. He finds the delicious seeds and closes his hand around them, creating a clenched fist, and now he can’t get his hand out of the narrow hole. The Bushman approaches the monkey from behind and loops a rope around the frightened, screaming monkey’s neck. He extracts the monkey’s hand, pulls it to a nearby corner and ties it to the trunk of a tree.”
“Is there an end to this story?” Cornfield moaned, drinking a glass of water.
“There is. He gives the monkey a few salt crystals. The monkey, which really likes salt, treats them like candy and gobbles them down. But a while later, it becomes very thirsty. That’s when the Bushman decides the monkey’s ‘ready to talk’ and tell him where the baboons’ water reservoir is,” Hassin smiled.
“To talk? The monkey?” Cornfield croaked out a laugh.
“That’s right. The moment he releases the monkey, it starts running toward the baboons’ water reservoir like a creature possessed, not caring in the slightest that the Bushman is hot on its trail. And that’s how the monkeys’ well-guarded secret is revealed.”
“I know where you’re going with this, smartass. You mean that in order to expose the corrupt secrets of Ehud Tzur and his gang, we have to catch one of their baboon allies and feed him salt as bait?”
Hassin smiled to himself as if keeping a secret.
“Hassin, you’re a very sly bastard. I knew what I was doing when I brought you in to head the Mossad’s Operations Administration.” A mischievous spark ignited in Cornfield’s single eye.
“Not that it did me any good, since Lolik Kenan threw me out a short time later.”
Cornfield sighed. Hassin, the fearless, creative and primal warrior, had a problem with human relations. He was highly goal oriented, a trait that always transformed him into his worst enemy. During his short time at the Mossad, he had managed to turn most of the division heads against him, until they were unwilling to work with him.
Yair Zipori, the former police general commissioner, was thinking aloud: “It’s entirely clear to me that the moment we oppose the prime minister and the new heads of the administration, there’s no way back. The scrambled eggs can never go back inside the eggshell, and it’s clear to all of us that all Aquarium personnel will kick our ass and say terrible things about us, including looking for past skeletons we might or might not have in our closets, press leaks, or even arrest and intimidation.”
Amishav said, “I heard from a major building contractor in Jerusalem, who used to serve under me in the commando, that he bought some stupid painting of cypress trees from Monique, Ehud Tzur’s wife, for 200,000 NIS in cash.”
“Two hundred thousand for a painting? She really paints that well?” Cornfield asked, causing Motke Hassin to choke up with laughter.
“She’s a shitty painter. But he has to grease his connections with the administration, and this is a relatively small price to pay for the benefits he’ll reap. He’s intending to build a giant new neighborhood in North Ramat Aviv Gimel for foreign Jewish millionaires, and he needs friends in high places. I think he threw the painting in some storage shed.”
“I read somewhere that a small-fry criminal acts against the law, a middle-grade criminal bypasses the law, and a major criminal works under the cover of the law, but a smart criminal writes and shapes the law,” Dinur said.
“That’s exactly the case. Ehud Tzur, that son of a bitch, picks only people who owe him something, and that’s how he controls the law and shapes it. He doesn’t pick them according to their qualifications, but according to their personal loyalty to him!” Cornfield called out in rage.
“Cornfield, I know you were very fond of Lolik, who appointed you,” Uri Dinur said, “but believe me, he knew a thing or two about the relationship between the wealthy and the regime. He also twisted historical facts or state agendas to ensure his political survival. There are only two kinds of politicians: the ones who have already been caught committing acts of corruption, and are in jail, and the ones who haven’t been caught yet. You think Ehud Tzur made all this up?”
Cornfield sipped fresh-squeezed lemonade with ice and shook his head. “Uri, you’re totally exaggerating. You make it sound like everything’s rotten here in Israel. It’s a good thing our defense agencies are still clean, right?”
The attendees exchanged glances. As the gatekeepers of Israel’s security, who knew the country’s most guarded secrets better than anyone else; they had convened that morning because they were worried. They intended to lay down a trap to catch those who were corrupt, and their shadow army was larger than expected.
“I know a good place where we can work quietly, with access to sensitive information, far from prying eyes,” Cornfield said. He knew exactly where they should go: the Israel Intelligence Heritage and Commemoration Center (IICC) located at Glilot Junction and managed by an old friend. There, they could work quietly, far from the inquisitive eyes of the current policymakers.
Chapter 19
The Digital Fortress Unit
On the hill, over Highway 2, thousands of autumn crocuses had popped up, adding shades of white, pink and lavender to the area. Later on in the winter, daffodils, white asphodels and various anemones would bloom in the nature reserve. Wagtails scurried around in the statue garden of the Mossad Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, nicknamed ‘the Office’ by its employees.
On a floor located deep under the complex of modern offices, the seasons of the year were never apparent. Floor B5, five floors underground, had always been considered a desirable location. Only a handful of employees, equipped with a miniscule computer chip, the size of half a grain of rice, which had been implanted subcutaneously in their hand, were allowed to go down to this floor, the headquarters of the Digital Fortress Unit. They were also required to undergo a fingerprint test and a retinal scan in order for their entry to be approved by the triple-fold security system. Any deviation or input data error would activate the alarm system, trapping the intruder between steel doors.
If an authorized visitor arrived on scene, he would instantly sense that the people who worked there were a different breed, with a different behavioral code. They tended to dress in a scruffy, casual manner, with piercings in their nose or ear, long hair and fashionable scruff on their faces. Everythi
ng was permitted, other than smoking. Another look would reveal an isolated group of exceptional ultra-Orthodox youths from Bnei Brak in an adjacent hall. Under special dispensation from the rabbis, they were allowed to serve their country, utilizing their brilliant minds, well trained in analyzing and debating the subtleties of the Torah, to crack codes and track down hackers.
These were the Mossad’s cyber warriors. No bulging muscles, no knife between their teeth, exhibiting only the whiteness of their pale skin as a result of long hours spent in the basement, conducting ambushes opposite the computer screen. They couldn’t be used to steal horses, as most of them suffered from hay fever, but smuggling a Trojan horse into the enemy’s stable was their area of expertise.
Similarly to the manner in which, during World War II, math prodigies were recruited to serve at Bletchley Park, where Alan Turing and his friends cracked the secret of the Enigma, the German encryption machine, so, too, were the candidates for the Digital Fortress Unit chosen with extreme care by cyber experts who published a complex riddle of sorts in the press. An additional round of screening served to create a cohesive team. It included young hackers who had already gotten in trouble with the law, boys and girls on the autism spectrum, often with Asperger’s Syndrome, computer freaks and loner geeks, obsessed with crossword puzzles, mathematical riddles and video games. Management preferred virginal minds that had yet to be tainted by academia over certified software engineers.
The site did not look like a government office but like a playground for adults, modeled after American high-tech companies. The kitchenette provided warm soups, light meals and a variety of snacks at all hours of the day and night. Although there was a clear hierarchy of roles within the unit, the special layout blurred it, and all of the employees’ work areas were similar. This was typical of a workplace where people knew their place and appreciated it, as well.