by Nathan Ronen
Cornfield shifted uneasily in his chair. He was angry at the prime minister’s cynical use of such a sensitive event, and glanced at his friends. Yair Zipori’s gaze expressed his displeasure as well. Motke Hassin was the first to rise from his seat and leave, waving his metal arms in front of Ehud Tzur, his scarred face frightening the young female soldiers waiting at the edge of the stage. Dinur, Cornfield and Zipori rose and followed him out. The prime minister interrupted his speech briefly, tracking them with a piercing, disapproving gaze. A few TV cameras turned toward the deserters, soon joined by some of the bereaved parents, who rose from their seats in protest over transforming a solemn stately occasion into a political event for Tzur.
***
“Guys, are you hungry?” Cornfield asked, standing next to his car in the parking lot. “Feel like some good hummus? There’s a little hummus joint in Yavne that I think is the best in the country.”
“Go on, drive, we’ll follow,” Hassin said.
The electric “Ami Hummus” sign glowed red, inviting the gatekeepers into the small restaurant specializing in warm hummus ground on site in front of the patrons’ eyes. The place was empty, and so clean it was gleaming.
“I’m sorry, we’re closed,” Ami said. “We’ve already cleaned the restaurant and the waiters have gone home.”
Cornfield ignored this message. “Do you have a little hummus left in the pot?”
“I do,” Ami said, “but I was going to toss it. I cook new hummus every day.”
“Come meet Ami,” Cornfield told his friends. “He was a student of Amira’s, as well as a chef at some well-known restaurants in Tel Aviv, until he decided he wanted a little joint of his own, so he’d have time to spend with his kids. Ami, give us a few servings of hummus with tahini and pine nuts, hummus with lamb, and grilled hummus with tomato sauce and barbecued hot peppers, some hot sauce, green onion, olives, a few cans of chilled beer, and then leave us alone.”
Ami served them like a scolded student in the principal’s office.
“What’s going on, guys?” Cornfield asked.
“So, I’m walking around during the toast for the police general commissioner who replaced me,” Zipori said, “and I’m hearing about some strange things happening, and some red lines being crossed.”
“Like what?” Hassin challenged.
“The head of the Fraud Unit told me confidentially that they’ve been hearing all kinds of troubling rumors about money allegedly being given to Tzur to fund his campaign. These funds are being brought here in cash and are disappearing into private safes belonging to friends of Tzur’s. There are also rumors of gifts worth thousands of dollars: cigars, champagne, expensive booze smuggled in without paying customs fees and brought directly to Ehud Tzur’s private residence. Jewelry and expensive designer clothing given as gifts to Ehud Tzur’s wife and even to Geula, his office manager.”
“Well, that’s not new, he’s always been a hedonist,” Cornfield said. “That doesn’t mean he’s any different than other people we know.”
“The difference is in the scale, and the shamelessness. In addition, there are hints of bribes being given to the prime minister’s cousin, who’s also the legal counsel for a few industrialists’ families, as well as concerning the Prime Minister’s Office’s legal counselor, who supposedly volunteers there in return for one shekel a year. It turns out the cousin also represents the German company that manufactures submarines for the Israeli Navy. She’s also the representative for Natek, the company previously represented by Avigdor Galili, which manufactures missile boats for the IDF and security systems that are supposed to protect Israel’s gas rigs in the depths of the Mediterranean Sea.”
“Other than talk, do they have any proof?” Dinur asked. “Maybe it’s time to start bringing this to the attention of the attorney general, so he can instruct the state attorney to investigate all this, and demand that the police do so as well.”
“He won’t do anything. He was appointed by the prime minister too, and he treats the government as if it’s his family business rather than doing his job. He’s more concerned with securing the gates of their estates than with being the country’s gatekeeper.”
“If we provide him with evidence, he can’t weasel out of it. He also wants to end his term on a good note and be appointed as a Supreme Court judge.”
“Maybe it’s time to look into who our mole could be. Who the weakest link is in Ehud Tzur and his friends’ security apparatus.”
“Remember when I told you how to find water in the Kalahari Desert?” Motke Hassin said.
“Sure, that’s the story about the baboon, right?”
“That’s exactly it. We need to find out which baboon in Ehud Tzur’s bureau can lead us to proof, solid evidence that won’t allow any attorney general to just shrug off the entire matter, and will compel him to initiate a police investigation.” Hassin smiled.
“I have an idea…” Dinur said. “I’m very well acquainted with that office. Back when I was head of the Shin Bet, I initiated the procedure of having the bureau employees undergo a polygraph test once a year. Some very interesting things popped up there, and I think the time has come to make use of them.”
“I think the most efficient thing would be for us to split up,” Cornfield said. “I’ll travel to the States. I have some friends in the CIA, Congress, and the FBI. Generally speaking, they don’t officially share the info they collect on prime ministers. But Amishav told me a while ago that Ehud Tzur was planning to travel to the US, and I think that if Tzur goes through with his plan to address the American Congress despite being explicitly asked by the White House not to do so, they’ll get a green light to release that material to us.”
“Okay,” Hassin said. “I’ll deal with recruiting the monkey, and I have an idea.”
“Let’s meet at the Intelligence Heritage and Commemoration Center in Glilot in a month,” Cornfield concluded.
The group was well-sated and very pleased with the meal, leaving Ami a much larger sum than the one he had requested.
Chapter 27
The Operations Administration in Mossad HQ
The Operations Administration, which Arik Bar-Nathan had been recruited to head, took up an entire building not far from the Mossad director’s office. The modern building housed all the divisions running the operational force and its auxiliary units, while a different building housed the logistics and force preparation administration. The unit’s executing arm, Kidon Unit, dwelled in a secret base somewhere in Israel whose location was known only to a selected few. The Mossad HQ’s staff members had never seen the warriors’ faces, and their pay stubs featured fictitious names in order to prevent any leaks.
Arik stepped into the reception area of the Operations Administration, warmly embraced his loyal office manager Claire, and asked her to come into his office. “I need two things from you at the moment. The first one is personal. Eva’s left our home in Jerusalem along with Leo.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Claire said, thinking back to the worst days of his ugly divorce, when he was serving as the commander of Kidon, and was often away on secret operational activity in various dangerous locales. She herself had a family and a happy marriage, but she was there at his side, supporting and assisting him behind the scenes in order to ease his chaotic life. She organized, consoled, moderated, mediated, and mainly allowed him to live his life without interruptions. Other than sex, which had never been an aspect of their relationship, she was the shadow wife in his life.
“I’ll handle the Eva issue. I want her back in my life. What I want from you is to help me pack up the place in Jerusalem one more time. I’ve moved back to the house in Palmachim Base. I don’t have the mental energy to deal with a real estate agent and a lawyer, or even to toss out all the food she left me in the fridge, which has probably gone bad and is stinking up the place by now. You have my credit c
ard number, right?”
Claire nodded.
“The other topic is operational. Have a foreign passport made for me. I need to travel incognito urgently.”
The phone buzzed and Claire replied, listened, and said, “Galili wants you to come see him. There’s something he wants to discuss with you in person before you take off.”
Arik crossed the long corridor leading to the newly renovated office, designed in the image of his new boss.
“What exactly happened on Saturday night at my party between you and my wife?” he spat out, enraged.
“Nothing. Your wife told me about your polyamory lifestyle and I wasn’t willing to be another pawn in her game.”
“That’s not what I heard from her. You humiliated her and left her tied up,” Galili said, assessing Arik with his gaze.
“What are you actually accusing me of?” Arik asked firmly.
“Nothing. Just stay away from my wife, you hear?”
“I have no problem with that. If you make sure to keep her away from me, everything will be fine.”
He looked in Galili’s eyes and noticed the same wretchedness there that he had found in his wife’s eyes.
Chapter 28
The Royal Palace in Fez, Morocco
At five p.m., a procession of black Mercedes cars displaying the license plates and insignia of the royal family drove in through the central gate, one of seven in the royal palace. The rays of the setting sun glimmered in gold hues on the bronze palace gates, embellished with fine metalwork.
The soldiers of the Royal Guard, dressed in red suits with a green jacket and white ankle boots, stood at attention and raised their weapons in a salute to Prince Mohammed Fouad Al Mansouri, Morocco’s minister of the interior as well as the king’s elder brother.
Servants dressed in white jellabiyas and sporting red turbans on their heads rushed to welcome the arriving party with silver trays bearing pitchers, pouring mint tea in crystal glasses inlaid with gold decorations. At palace entrance, one of the servants kneeled, removed the prince’s shoes and socks, and washed his feet in a gold-plated bowl. The prince remained standing, looking straight ahead, leaning against the servant’s shoulder as if supporting himself on an inanimate object. The servant dried the prince’s feet with a small towel, encasing them in white suede babouche slippers.
The prince was well acquainted with the spacious palace in which he had been raised as a child and strode through its halls with the confidence of a proprietor. He turned to the Spanish patio garden with a fountain at its center, his entourage of assistants trailing in his wake toward one of the inner chambers, maintaining a respectful distance.
The finest Fez carpets adorned the marble floor. The room was dominated by a massive oval table carved of corkwood, bearing trays of fresh fruit, dried fruit filled with nuts, zaban egg nougat, freshly baked deep-fried chebakia cookies and pitchers of fresh-squeezed orange juice. When the prince entered, all of the attendees sitting around the table leaped to their feet in a show of respect. They knew the prince was sensitive about his dignity, demanding that even his closest friends call him “Your Highness the Prince.” All of them bowed to him deeply, attempting to kiss his hand respectfully, but he swept by them, pulling his hand away in order to prevent the kiss while examining their faces imperiously.
“Sit down,” he commanded. “I presume the kingdom’s head of security services, General Abdelhak Kadiri, sitting here beside me, has already explained the essence of this meeting to you. I should note that my advisors recommended not to hold an assembly, but rather to use the tactic of ‘divide and conquer,’ conferring with each of you separately in order to decrease the chances of betrayal or a leak. But I have such faith in our alliance and in each of you that I’m willing to take the chance. And I’d actually rather conduct my private conversation with you in the palace of my brother the king, who’s staying with his friends in France at the moment.”
The attendees shook their heads with a smile. They had perceived this slight against the bon vivant king, who preferred the pleasures of the throne over running the country.
Among those present were the head of military intelligence, the Deputy Chief of General Staff and Air Force commander, the police general commissioner and the heads of the defense agencies subordinate to the minister of the interior. Special care had been taken to ensure that everyone present numbered among the descendants of the Almoravid and Almohad Berber tribes, which had always fought against the central regime and believed they were not getting their fair share. The chance of becoming the future rulers of the kingdom, receiving a portion of the loot, was sufficient motivation to take on the risk.
The prince knew he could count on his friend and longtime faithful associate, General Abdelhak Kadiri, head of Morocco’s internal security agency, the General Directorate for Studies and Documentation or DGED, which included all defense agencies as well as the Royal Guard Unit that constantly surrounded the king. He was certain Abdelhak had taken care to ensure the room in which they were sitting was indeed free of surveillance equipment, and that they could safely voice statements that would be perceived as treason against the king.
What Minister of the Interior Prince Mansouri did not know was that the room was wired with hidden cameras, and that every word was recorded by a DGED technician as insurance kept by General Kadiri for a rainy day. The lives of trusting technicians were cheap, and Kadiri always made sure to leave no witnesses behind. Once their confidential work was completed, they would be executed in a variety of freak accidents that were seemingly unavoidable.
“Gentlemen, we’re all patriots here, patriots of the Islamic Kingdom of Morocco. Don’t feel uncomfortable. But we’re at the end of our rope here, and we need to take action. Unlike other Arab countries, we don’t want a splashy revolution in which the army seizes control forcefully, publicly executing the king and his family. I know from the intelligence we’ve received that the Americans and the French will also not allow a military coup.
“Yesterday, I went to a fortune-teller who reads coffee grounds, who has been by my side for many years now. She told me that the stars are aligned. The leader currently in the White House is an idealist who’s not willing to be the world’s cop; he wants to change the world. Europe is tired of war and only wants the good life. Let’s give them what they call ‘the Spring of Nations,’ or even better, let’s call it ‘the Arab Spring.’ They won’t be opposed, and will even give us their blessing.
“Therefore, I support a coup, rather than a violent revolution. We want to create a situation in which the current king abdicates his throne voluntarily, and without bloodshed, but in order to bring that about, we have to create the right scenery. I know my spoiled brother; he’s motivated by his ego. He’ll never agree to this. And so we’ll apparently have to set in motion a wave of terrorist activity targeting him. And then, as the king’s older brother, I intend to convince my younger brother that he should stay in his villa in the French Riviera before he’s killed. I’ll promise him he’ll continue to enjoy life, and will receive a generous pension from the state. In the meantime, we’ll take over the country and will be perceived as its saviors, and that way, our regime will receive legitimacy from the Western superpowers.
“As you all know, our king, my younger brother Mohammed, ascended to the throne in opposition to the dynastic rules. I am the elder brother, and had been groomed to rule ever since I was a boy. The throne was robbed from us due to Jewish secret counselors, who recommended to the king that he appoint my younger brother, the pampered child of the king’s favorite wife. In the coronation in 1999, he was presented to the public as ‘the king of the poor,’ but our very own ‘King Midas’ doesn’t merely empty the state treasury. Using a group of his close friends, he also controls the economy. I call him ‘the CEO of Morocco Ltd.’ because he’s seized control of such a major part of the banking, insurance, import and export industries
, as well as most of the state’s agricultural production, through the royal holding company, ONA.
“My brother’s private fortune in Swiss and Luxembourg banks is estimated at over three billion dollars, and I believe he’s richer than many of the rulers of the oil countries. His love of luxury is evident in his lavish car collection. Almost every morning, he demands to view about a dozen of the quite impressive selection of cars he’s accumulated, so he can decide which of them he wants to use that day.
“Like a little boy, my brother likes to have his favorite toys properly maintained. In fact, he had his Bugatti Veyron 16.4 Grand Sport, which is worth about two million dollars, flown in a Royal Air Force Hercules aircraft to the manufacturer in Italy, just to have it tuned.”
His audience did not respond. Prince Mansouri was also known for his extravagant spending, of which the main beneficiaries were his European mistresses. He was especially fond of fair-haired Frenchwomen. But the attendees knew it would serve them well to keep their mouths shut and enjoy the massive bounty they would reap once they seized control of the throne.
“It’s true, in a sophisticated move, my brother revised the constitution of his country and granted more power to elected officials. However, according to the new laws, he has maintained control only over the areas of defense, the military and religious affairs. The routine management of the country simply bores him. He’s only met the prime minister twice during the last year. He knows that his people are angry, but he’s complacent, and that is precisely his Achilles’ heel.