by Nathan Ronen
“Does everyone agree?” Galili asked, and all attendees nodded in consent.
Galili made a note to himself to urgently discuss the topic of Arik Bar-Nathan with Prime Minister Tzur.
* * *
15 The Salafist or Salafi movement is a movement within Sunni Islam focused on looking back to a prior historical period in an effort to understand how the contemporary world should be ordered, including supporting sharia (Islamic law).
Chapter 23
Palmachim Airbase
Six a.m. On the balcony of his home on the cliff, on the southern edge of the Tsuk Kedumim neighborhood in Palmachim Airbase, Arik finished reading the Ha’aretz headlines, sipping a macchiato he’d made himself along with a bagel with lox and cream cheese.
As a state employee, he was entitled to use the three months of paid leave he had accumulated. His state-assigned Audi 6 was still at his disposal until the end of the month. He would have no perceivable financial concerns in the future as well, as his military pension as a colonel, Mossad division head, and the prime minister’s advisor provided him with ample breathing room.
He found the current lack of adrenaline in his life very difficult. He was a thrill junky, and now, deprived of his drug of choice, found himself experiencing a fierce withdrawal.
The bad feeling was intensified by Eva’s absence from his life for more than two months now, and the difficulty in conversing with her without fighting. Every time he tried to call her in Germany, her mother blocked him. He missed her, and especially missed the carefree laughter of his young son Leo.
He discharged the surplus of energy in his body by playing sports or restoring old motorcycles, for which he sourced parts in all kinds of out-of-the-way locations. He jogged between the reefs on the beach or raced his Harley down the dry wadi beds in the desert or in the Arava area, among the phosphorous rocky hills near the Dead Sea, which emitted a greenish glow on moonlit nights.
All his attempts to start a business based on his experience as a national security advisor and offering to establish intelligence systems for developing countries had come to naught. None of his former friends in the defense system wanted to join him, as everyone knew about his clash with the prime minister, and none of them were willing to risk their livelihood by aligning with a man to whom all the doors to the most important bureau in the country were closed.
This morning, he activated the stopwatch on his Rolex Sport, secured his new iPhone in his armband, and thrust the white earbuds in his ears. He began his six-mile run with a light warm-up jog, going down the 120 steps leading to the rocky beach under the base. When he reached the sandy stretch of coast, he pressed Play on his phone, and the unique voice of singer David D’Or emerged with a countertenor rendition of Handel’s baroque piece, Ombra Mai Fu. On the beach, he increased his pace, skipping over the rocks and between the coral reefs in the shallow water, running around the crushed captured enemy tanks that served as target practice for the attack helicopters at the adjacent base.
The half-asleep soldiers in the guard post waved hello to him, and the guard dogs tied to the tracks along the fences barked at him and bared their teeth. He growled back at them, laughing nervously.
The singer’s voice faded away, replaced by the phone ringing in his earbuds.
“Arik Bar-Nathan?” he heard a female voice.
He stopped running and tried to resume breathing rhythmically. “Yes… Just a moment,” he huffed, regaining control. “Who is this?”
“This is Geula from the Prime Minister’s Office. How are you? The prime minister wants to talk to you.”
Arik stopped, sitting down on a sandstone rock, his feet dipping in the cool water of the sea. He was annoyed by the fact that he would have to speak to the man who had deposed him of all his roles.
“How are you?” Tzur asked with artificial pleasantness.
“I’m just fine,” Arik said, emotionally distant in order to contain his immense anger.
“And how are things at home?” Tzur interrogated him, knowing full well the answer.
“Are you having me followed?” Arik asked, not bothering to disguise his rage.
“Of course not. I just asked about you, and I heard that you weren’t really getting along out there on your own. I heard that you were all alone. Sad,” Tzur prodded freely at his open wound.
“Ehud Tzur, you didn’t call me to hear how I’m doing or to gossip about the fact that my wife left me. Am I right, or do I have it wrong and the State of Israel has run out of problems?”
Ehuz Tzur chuckled. “I need to talk to you urgently. When can you get to Jerusalem?”
“How urgent is it?”
“In an hour?” Tzur asked.
“I’m in the middle of something here. Two hours,” Arik replied, engaging in a round of ‘who’ll get the last word in.’
Tzur slammed down his phone.
Chapter 24
The Prime Minister’s Office in Jerusalem
Arik entered the Prime Minister’s Office after undergoing all phases of the security screening. The squat Geula acted uncharacteristically by emerging from her usual shell of tough sourness and warmly shaking Arik’s hand.
“How are you?” she asked with unusual pleasantness. “How’s your health, and how are your wife and kid?”
He smiled in embarrassment. He had no energy for small talk, especially in light of his suspicion that she already knew all the answers.
“Is the boss in there?” he asked impatiently, opening the door leading into the highest power center in Israel.
He found Ehud Tzur sitting with the incoming Mossad director, Izzo Galili, in the lounge nook. They were holding glasses of fine whisky in their hands, engulfed by bluish smoke from the cigars in their hands. They were clearly close friends.
“You two know each other?” Tzur asked without rising from his seat, gesturing at Galili with his glass.
“We’ve met,” Arik said rigidly.
“A drink?”
Arik shook his head.
“Okay, let’s get to business. There are rumors that al-Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb (AQIM) is trying to assassinate the king of Morocco,” Galili said, awaiting Arik’s response.
“That’s nothing new.” Arik’s expression was skeptical.
“This time it’s not just rumors. There are clear indications, and we can’t just turn our backs to it. We need to be involved because ultimately, it’ll end up on our doorstep, if not tomorrow, then in two days’ time,” Galili quoted Alex’s words from the heads of division meeting held in his office that morning.
“Why are you telling me this? How does it pertain to me?” Arik asked.
“We’ve identified clear signs of massive smuggling of funds to support terrorist activity in North African countries and in the Sahel region, between the Sahara and Sudan. They’re getting ready and making plans to carry out terrorist attacks. The whole business is originating in territory that’s in France’s back yard, and I was told you’re the best person to handle it, because both Admiral Lacoste of the DGSE and General Kadiri, head of the Moroccan defense agency, are friends of yours.”
“You still haven’t answered me. How does this pertain to me?” Arik refused to back down.
“I’m asking you to return to the Mossad as Galili’s deputy and head of the Operations Administration. I need you, he needs you, and the people of Israel need you.”
“I don’t know,” Arik said. “I have some ideas about starting a security consulting firm with a few friends…”
“Arik, spare me the bullshit,” Tzur burst out. “You’ve got nothing. You and your friends are just spinning your wheels. Out of ten companies founded by IDF and defense agency retirees, maybe one or two break even financially. The rest are just an empty display of business cards with impressive titles like CEO or VP, and nothing behind them. Besi
des, you know you need authorization from the head of the Defense Exports Control Agency and from the Ministry of Defense Security Authority to export that kind of information, and you won’t be getting it, since the person who approves permits for international arms deals or security consulting is me.”
“Are you threatening me again?” Arik glared at him in anger. “In just one month, you’ve tossed me out of my job, proposed that I return to the Mossad as a deputy after I told you I had a promise from the prime minister to be appointed as Mossad director, and now I find out that you’re the one who’s been working behind the scenes to keep me from making an honest living?”
“Kenan’s decision to appoint you as Mossad director was written on ice on a hot day. There was no written documentation,” Tzur lashed out.
“…and then you call me out of the blue and promise me I can be director of the Mossad if I can provide you with laurels in the form of a ludicrous Operation Entebbe that wasn’t anywhere near ready, and then when I let you know that there’s no operational possibility of execution, you depose me of all my roles and throw me out like a piece of garbage. So why should I believe you now?” Arik concluded angrily.
Tzur walked over to the bar, poured a shot of Macallan Masters Edition whisky and handed it to Arik. “You’re right and I’m sorry. That really doesn’t sound fair. You know the difference between life and a dick?”
Galili smiled in satisfaction as if he knew the answer. Ehud Tzur examined Arik’s face, watching his nostrils, which were still quivering in rage.
“Life is always hard,” Tzur delivered the punchline.
Galili burst out in exuberant laughter. Arik continued to observe him sourly.
“I’m asking you nicely. We need your mind, your experience and your leadership capabilities. Would you take this on? Please?” Tzur extended his hand to be shaken.
“Okay,” Arik surrendered. “But I’m asking for full autonomy.”
Tzur raised his glass, and the three of them sealed the unwritten contract with a clinking of the crystal glasses, gulping down the potent liquor.
“First I want to get an update on what’s going on from my friends at the Office. Only then do I want to go meet Kadiri in Morocco. I want to hear what he knows, and after that, go visit Admiral Lacoste in France.”
“We’ve shared the details with the French DGSE. They’re generally up to date. Avi Oron, head of Tevel, was there this week. You’ve got a green light to meet your Moroccan friend in Paris only. But I want you to take a security detail with you. We don’t need you getting abducted as a bargaining tactic by the terrorists,” Galili concluded.
“My security detail will be Kidon’s ‘Three Graces’ team,” Arik said.
“Who’s that?” Tzur asked.
“They’re the most skilled team of female fighters we have: Ella, Lia and Alma. They’re experts on sabotage, camouflage and undercover work, all styles of close-range combat, infiltrating any location and concealing surveillance equipment. They speak several languages, and when they’re together, they always look like a silly bunch of students on break. Besides, I know Kadiri well, and I trust him.”
Tzur poured a bit more of the amber liquid into their glasses, diluting it with ice cubes he produced from the freezer.
“Tonight at eight, there’s a party at Galili’s house celebrating his entry into office, and I’ll be there to congratulate him,” Ehud Tzur said. “That’s where I’ll tell everyone about your appointment. You’re invited.”
“I’ll be there. And I’m asking you to have my secretary Claire returned to me. I heard that you kidnapped her for your office,” Arik told Galili.
“No problem,” Galili acquiesced.
Arik turned to Tzur: “And I want you to issue a writ of appointment, so this won’t be a promise written in ice on a hot day.”
Tzur flashed his toxic smile.
Chapter 25
The Mossad Director’s Residence
The lavish coronation party for the new director of the Mossad was held on Saturday night, in the two-floor penthouse apartment that was Major General Avigdor Galili’s residence, in Prime Towers, on Pinkas Street in prestigious north Tel Aviv.
In preparation for the expected arrival of Prime Minister Ehud Tzur, strict security measures were enforced. The entrance to the middle building in the strip of three identical towers was secured in advance. All of the building’s residents, as well as the esteemed guests, could enter only after undergoing a physical security screening, going through a metal detector as well as the ‘sniffer,’ which checked for traces of gunpowder on their hands.
Arik, who had been invited to the party along with the other heads of divisions at the Mossad and the senior members of Israel’s defense agencies, had decided to park at a distant location so at to be able to clear out early. He parked his car in the public parking garage next to Kikar HaMedina square and walked on foot from there.
After confirming his identity with his Security ID and having his name verified on the invitee list by the Shin Bet’s VIP Security Unit, Arik took the elevator up to the thirty-fourth, penthouse floor. He had to part from his Glock 21.
A massive hubbub greeted him. Waiters clad in white suits handed out chilled Jordan Blanc de Blanc sparkling wine, from Golan Heights Winery, in tall crystal glasses. Waitresses made the rounds with trays, distributing a variety of tapas to the guests. Arik took a glass from one of the trays.
He felt alienated from his surroundings. Although he and Cornfield weren’t exactly buddies, he felt angry over the way Cornfield had been fired from his job, and knew that this would be the new norm at the Mossad. No more brotherhood, familial feeling and mutual responsibility.
The trending rumors about the man newly appointed as Mossad director, known to be a close friend of the prime minister and a businessman who had contributed significant funds to his campaign, were troubling to many within the defense agencies. The military censors blocked any attempt by journalists to investigate the subject or address it in print. But as was typical of any vibrant democracy, the story leaked to the foreign press and from there back to Israeli media, thus bypassing the censors.
“There you are,” Arik heard a voice behind him and turned around. Major General Galili, sporting a well-fitted suit, shook his hand. “Do you know my wife?” he asked.
“Nice to meet you,” Arik said politely, looking into a pair of large green eyes that examined his body and face with unselfconscious curiosity. She was slightly tipsy, holding a glass of red wine from which she sipped occasionally without taking her eyes off Arik.
“You’re my husband’s new deputy, the guy from the naval commando who was the commander of Kidon Unit, right?” she said.
Arik nodded, staying silent. She was not a beautiful woman but she was different. She was wearing a deep blue Indian silk sari, inlaid with sparkling gems. Her arms were bare, as was her plump belly. A blue gem nestled in her navel. Her tangled mane of curly chestnut hair cascaded down her shoulders. Her skin, as clear as milk, and her piercing gaze created a presence hard to ignore. Large silver bracelets shaped like cobras, with blue sapphires embedded in their eyes, snaked down her arms to her hands. All of her fingers sported large yellow, green and light blue precious stones. She looked like an impossible combination of Indian goddess and Bollywood heroine.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Arik said.
“Tonight you can call me Lilith WT,” she said, leading him by the arm to the spiral glass stairs winding up to the spacious roof deck.
“That’s a unique name,” Arik said while climbing the stairs. “What does that ‘WT’ mean?” he asked.
“WT is short for Working Title,” she said with a lascivious smile. “I actually thought you’d ask me about Lilith.”
Arik did not reply, quietly following her up to the deck of the penthouse apartment.
A uniq
ue, well-tended cactus garden stretched over the massive deck, with large ceramic planters displaying blooming primroses, blue lobelia and sweet alyssum, emitting a pleasant scent. The roof provided a breathtaking view of the Tel Aviv coastline, illuminated by the late sunset. The three towers of the Azrieli Center mall gleamed in the southeast against the city’s night sky. Under them, along the axis of the Ayalon Highway and Namir Boulevard, thousands of car lights crawled in an endless traffic jam, shining like red fireflies.
“So you’re not going to ask me about Lilith?” she asked.
“I assume you’re going to tell me anyway,” Arik said, placing his empty champagne glass on a passing tray as he took two new glasses, offering one to Lilith.
“In the legends of the Jewish sages and the mystical Book of Zohar, Lilith is a demon, while in later Jewish mythology, she’s considered to be Adam’s first wife,” the wife of the incoming Mossad director said with a smile. “In Judaism and in the popular rabbinical heritage, Lilith symbolizes traits of rebelliousness, spite and immodesty.” She observed Arik’s reaction. “In the ancient world, Lilith was an antithesis to the figure of the married, wholesome Jewish wife. Lilith is nicknamed the wanton vampire, the beautiful virgin or the damsel. People used to believe that once she chooses a lover, she never lets him go, but also never allows him to attain satisfaction. Does that scare you?” she laughed, gazing into his soul with her big eyes.
“Why should it scare me?” Arik asked.
She entirely ignored the looks of the partygoers around them, clung to Arik’s side and whispered in his ear, “The Jewish Lilith is a figure with a demonic essence, endlessly roaming and eternally seeking the men she hurts and abandons, or abuses and kills. She’s the seductive woman bringing on the downfall of rabbis and righteous scholars.”
Arik smiled shyly. He wasn’t used to being courted so bluntly and assertively by a woman. The full moon rose, illuminating the sky.