by Nathan Ronen
It was clear to Cornfield that this decision would be a costly one. It was clear to him that you couldn’t just humiliate the president of the most influential superpower in the world, a superpower granting you defense and financial support, as well as diplomatic protection in the UN and other international organizations when Israel found itself isolated opposite the many Arab and Islamic countries. He was stunned by the fact that with its reckless decisions, Israel’s political echelon had, for the first time in the state’s history, caused strategic damage to the country’s security.
But this was not the kind of material that would bring on Ehud Tzur’s downfall.
He was hearing more and more rumors about friends of Avigdor Galili from his period as a businessman who were taking advantage of their association with him and making use of his influence to obtain arms business and consulting contracts, or utilizing classified intelligence information for their own purposes. The retired gatekeepers did not have proof that could serve as testimony in court, but the rumors were sufficient to make the gatekeepers lose any faith they might have had in the new director of the Mossad, an agency that had been Cornfield’s home in recent years. He suspected Galili or Ehud Tzur was to blame, but he needed more clear-cut evidence. He decided he would not allow corrupt politicians to take over the centers of power and cause strategic damage to the security of the country over whose defense he had shed blood and lost limbs. His conviction on this matter was nearly religious in its fervor, and he was willing to pay any price.
Now, however, he was hungry. He was waiting for Admiral Derby to take him to their favorite meat restaurant, Fogo de Chão Brazilian Steakhouse, an all-you-can-eat buffet that was well-suited to the tastes of the two avid carnivores.
In mid-meal, Cornfield received a phone call from his former deputy Motke Hassin, who updated him that “Operation Catch a Baboon” was up and running.
The twenty-ounce T-bone steak had never tasted better.
Chapter 35
Mahane Yehuda Market, Jerusalem
Heat-wave season began immediately after the holiday of Passover in April. On Thursday afternoon, the market was overflowing with thousands of shoppers, interspersed with wide-eyed tourists observing the immense variety of merchandise and the energy of the vibrant site.
The Iraqi Market was where the true Jerusalemites shopped in preparation for holidays and the Sabbath. It was named after the Jewish peddlers of Iraqi origin who were assigned a space within the market to place their stalls there even before the establishment of the State of Israel.
This was the market’s own Tower of Babel, which had always been a medley of ethnicities, nationalities and languages. The main promenade, Etz Haim Street, was an amalgamation of stores selling fresh fish, a gourmet cheese boutique, butcher shops, stands offering fresh, shiny fruit and vegetables, a variety of pickled offerings and dried fruit. The one omnipresent element was love for Beitar Jerusalem, the mythical soccer team, bridging all ethnicities and political opinions.
At the end of a day of shopping, everyone was invited to reward themselves at one of the stands offering falafel or Jerusalem mixed grill, where the selections were served in a large, rolled-up Iraqi-style pita bread, called “oven fire,” along with dreadfully sweet lemonade.
As the weekend approached, the market echoed with a loud bustle, comprised of the shouting of merchants testifying to their low prices and superior merchandise, competing with the shouting and rhymes of their neighbors. The vendors called out to their customers in their own language: Hebrew, Yiddish, Russian, Arabic, French, Persian and Amharic, encouraging them to buy “today only for cheap.”
Geula Mordoch strode with her shopping baskets, buying the necessary ingredients for her Sabbath cooking. She lived alone in an old apartment she had inherited from her parents in the Katamon Tet neighborhood in Jerusalem, but enjoyed roaming the streets of her childhood and savoring the respect directed at her by everyone as a neighborhood girl who had made her way to the top and was now manager of the Prime Minister’s Office.
She would spend the Sabbath alone, as usual. She liked to cook her Kurdish parents’ North Iraqi cuisine. On Hashikma Street, in the Levi family’s grocery store, she would purchase semolina and roughly ground grains of burgul for the meat-filled kibbeh balls. She would buy the ground meat itself from Ya’akov the butcher, who spiced it for her in advance with plenty of fresh parsley, onion and garlic. From Tzidkiyahu, her classmate in elementary school in the nearby Nahalat Ya’akov neighborhood, she would purchase fifty grams of Baharat spice mixture, salads and homemade pickled vegetables. She would buy small, fresh Turkish okra from Mouiz the Moroccan, to be used in a dish of meatballs in tomato sauce, while she would get chickpeas with pickled lemon, cooked over a kerosene burner all night, from Rachmo the Lebanese.
She had no problem at all with the fact that most of the vendors refused to accept payment from her. She saw it as an expression of respect for her status, and enjoyed it greatly, especially since she only bought small quantities. She convinced herself that one day, they would ask her for help of some sort, and she would thus repay her debt. This was the usual custom in the ‘Little Jerusalem’ of old-fashioned alleys in which she had grown up.
She left Etz Haim Street, the market’s main thoroughfare, in the direction of Agrippas Street, the busy boulevard leading to the center of town, where she had parked her car next to a sidewalk marked in red and white, with a street sign prohibiting stopping, not to mention parking. To her, this was a trivial fact that should never impede people of her kind, who towered above the common folk.
Geula loaded her baskets into the trunk of the official state car that she occasionally borrowed to perform her errands. She had left work early today due to the prime minister’s trip to the United States, after deciding she would not be accompanying him.
She didn’t want to tell the prime minister that Arthur Schein, his American advisor, was the reason why she was not joining him on the trip. When she was around Schein, she always felt inferior. She didn’t speak English, and wasn’t a sophisticate like he was. She always suspected that he was trying to usurp her special position by the prime minister’s side, which she had achieved only after many years of dog-like loyalty, starting back in the period when both of them had still been exiled to the political desert, and most of the aides had bailed in favor of more glamorous careers, aligning themselves with horses with a better shot in the race.
She tore off the parking ticket stuck to her windshield, rolled it into a ball and tossed it on the ground, entered her car and took off immediately. Suddenly, she felt something ramming into her powerfully from behind, and heard the grating sound of metal against metal. She exited her vehicle angrily.
Another car, a white Skoda, was impaled in the rear of her vehicle, blocking the entire road and immediately creating a major traffic jam consisting of short-tempered drivers, honking their horns madly and yelling at them to clear the road.
“What the hell kind of driving was that, you moron!” she shouted out, approaching the driver.
The darkened window of the car that had hit her was lowered, revealing the smiling face of a very handsome blond man.
“You jackass, you’re still smiling? Do you even know who I am?” she cried out in frustration.
“Ma’am, your anger just makes you more beautiful to me,” he answered her with a dazzling smile, which created two dimples in his cheeks. His large, light blue eyes observed her fearlessly.
She didn’t know how to deal with such flattery. She watched as he exited his vehicle, stretching to his full height and towering above her like a basketball player. He extended his hand to her. “I’m Sasha. I’m sorry I hit your car. You just veered away from the sidewalk suddenly, without signaling, and I guess I was surprised and didn’t have time to brake.” He bent down to assess the impact. “Just a bit of damage. It’s small change, a minor scratch on my bumper, and you
have a broken taillight and a dent in the metal. The important thing is that we’re both okay.”
The honking of the other drivers was enraging her. She cursed them out, especially the ones tossing out derogatory comments about women’s ability to drive.
“Why don’t we exchange info and get going again?” the tall man suggested. “We’re blocking up Agrippas Street, which is always the busiest street just before the weekend.”
“But it’s not my fault. You crashed into me,” she tried to establish the facts.
He walked over to his vehicle to fetch his license and registration, while she gazed at him as if mesmerized: his black Tommy Hilfiger shirt clung to his muscular torso, making him seem like a shapely marble statue of Apollo to her. Under his shirt and over his tight jeans, she saw the bulge of a gun’s stock. This was not unusual in Jerusalem.
“Are you a cop or something?” she asked.
“I am. I’m a police captain in the International Crime Unit, in the national HQ in Jerusalem,” he answered casually, waiting for her to present her documents to him.
“This is a state vehicle,” she replied, pointing at her car. “The Prime Minister’s Office,” she tried to impress him.
“I understand. License and registration, please,” he answered pleasantly.
She produced her driver’s license and handed it over. He looked down at the document, saying, “Nice to meet you, Geula Mordoch, I’m Sasha Yarshanski.”
“Yeah, you already said that,” she told him, continuing to ogle his burly shoulders.
“Geula—can I call you Geula? I want to make it up to you. Can I ask you out for coffee and the best strudel cake in Jerusalem?” he asked with a shy smile.
She observed him skeptically.
He used his cell phone to photograph her ID, took her cell phone to take pictures of his own documents, then handed her cell phone back.
“Give my info to the vehicle supervisor at your office. He’ll know what needs to be done. Don’t worry, I’ll accept the blame.”
She watched the efficiency and quiet manner with which he operated. Mostly, she was mesmerized by his motions, as agile as a cat’s.
“So how about that coffee and strudel? My treat,” he offered seductively, watching her with his dreamy eyes.
“I don’t know,” she stammered. “I’ve got some meat and produce in my car, and I… I don’t know… I’m not really dressed for an outing, and I’m…”
“Nonsense. You look great. Let’s go to your place, you’ll go up and put the groceries in the fridge, and we’ll take my car.”
“Is that always how you get girls?” she asked, challenging.
“I’m not looking for girls. But when I run into a real, assertive woman like you, I try my luck and hope you’ll give me a chance.”
“How old are you, anyway?” she asked.
“I’m twenty-six. Does the age difference bother you? Don’t worry, this isn’t a wedding. It’s just an invitation for coffee and cake to make up for scaring you,” he soothed her.
“Okay, follow me,” she surrendered.
Chapter 36
The Austrian Hospice on Via Dolorosa St., Jerusalem
Sasha parked his car next to Lions’ Gate in Jerusalem’s Old City, striding confidently into the heart of the Old City’s Muslim Quarter.
“Where are you taking me?” Geula asked, somewhat warily.
“It’s a surprise. A place that most Jerusalemites don’t know. Geula, please let go. You’re making such an effort to be in control all the time. Let me pamper you and allow yourself to have fun. What do you say?”
She nodded. It wasn’t easy for her to let down the defenses that had protected her for so many years.
Not far from the Muslim market, at the corner of Via Dolorosa, behind heavy wooden doors on one of the streets bustling with the largest number of pilgrims from all over the world, stood an impressive three-story building with a glorious history, concealed from casual observers.
Sasha rang the bell and waited with European politeness for the door to be opened.
A German-speaking nun opened the door and asked whether they had a reservation for a room.
Sasha smiled and replied in excellent German that they were on their way to the café, and that he hoped they hadn’t run out of the famous strudel, for which they had come a long way.
Geula watched the two nerds converse in German, slowly, with plenty of smiles and leisurely body language, and felt like a stranger in her own city.
The nun invited them in, closing the heavy wooden door behind them.
“This is the Austrian Hospice—a happy European oasis in the heart of the Levant. It’s a hotel with a European-style café,” Sasha explained. “In the middle of the nineteenth century, the Austrian emperor decided to take steps to create an impressive Protestant presence in Ottoman Jerusalem, as a counterbalance to France’s presence as patron of the Catholic agenda and the Holy See’s representative in the Holy Land.”
“And is it still a working inn these days?” Geula asked, appreciatively eyeing the building’s façade, adorned with red and white stone striping, in a style characteristic of Ottoman architecture.
“You bet. Today it’s a very popular hotel among German-speaking pilgrims,” Sasha said, reaching out for her hand. They climbed the wide stone steps to the building’s first floor, which served as the inn’s lobby, proudly displaying a large oil portrait of Emperor Franz Joseph the First, ruler of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.
Sasha guided Geula through the decorated, colorful chapel, leading her straight into the European-style cafeteria that extended outside to the building’s garden.
Geula paused, stunned. The bustle of the oriental market was left outside, beyond the massive doors. They were now at the heart of Old World Europe. The restaurant’s tables, resembling those of a Viennese café and covered with pressed cotton tablecloths, were spread out among the trees. A vase with a small bouquet of fresh seasonal wildflowers adorned every table.
“I promised you proper Viennese strudel, with whipped cream and coffee, didn’t I?”
She sat down and waited for the waiter.
“It’s self-service. I’ll be right back,” Sasha said. He returned several minutes later holding a large tray, with a light fleece blanket slung over his shoulder.
The serving of strudel was large and crispy, full of slices of tart apples, nuts and raisins. A sweet mountain of fluffy whipped cream towered on the side of the plate besides the long spoon. The coffee, served in a china cup, was strong and aromatic.
Sasha saw her shiver slightly in the cool evening breeze and covered her shoulders with the light blanket.
“You’re a true gentleman, Sasha. So different from the Israeli men I know.”
He flashed his heart-melting smile at her, telling her, “We’re not done with surprises yet. When the sun begins to set in the west, we’ll go up to the roof.”
The scent of his aftershave and the proximity of such an attractive man made Geula forget about the groceries waiting in her fridge. Tonight, she decided, she would allow herself to be swept away, with no reservations. It had been quite a while since she had felt as feminine and desirable as this man allowed her to feel, while not pressuring her in any way,
“Sasha, tell me a little about yourself,” she asked with a childish coquettishness.
“I was born in 1982, in the town of Pripyat, in the Kiev District of Ukraine. My father was an engineer at the nuclear power plant that exploded in Chernobyl. When he was killed in the explosion, my mother and I escaped to Kiev, the capital, located in the north of the country, but I quickly found out that my mother, who had been a technician at the power plant, had also been exposed to radiation, and she passed away from a lethal form of blood cancer. I remained to live with my grandmother Marushka, who raised me. She was a professor of languages, and
that’s where I got my strong German, Russian and English. I can chat in a few other languages. Since I always excelled as an athlete, my memories are actually of a happy childhood, until, at the age of sixteen, a group of anti-Semitic Ukrainians assaulted me in high school, and abruptly transformed me into a Jew and a Zionist. I immigrated to Israel with my grandmother. She passed away six months ago. I spent my youth at the Boyar Boarding School in Jerusalem, and after that, became a fighter and officer in IDF, and you know the rest.”
She ogled him with the eyes of a teenager. The light tone with which he conveyed a difficult life story, with no residue of bitterness and without portraying himself as a victim, made her envy him.
“The time has come. Let’s proceed to the highlight of the evening.” He hugged her and she snuggled into him. They went up to the roof. As in many locations in Jerusalem, the building’s roof concealed a stunning observation post, providing a direct view of the gilded Dome of the Rock, now glimmering in a deep shade of gold in the rays of the setting sun. Geula looked around and, from afar, could see the spires of the old Italian Hospital, currently housing the Ministry of Education, the round steeple of the YMCA building, and the long, impressive structure of the King David Hotel, covered with reddish Jerusalem stone. The skyline of Jerusalem’s New City was visible above them.
Although she was a fifth-generation Jerusalemite, she had never seen ‘Jerusalem the Golden’ this way, embraced by the man of her dreams. He gazed into her eyes and kissed her softly. She grabbed hold of him and kissed him again and again with uncontrollable desire. She could feel herself melting completely.
“Do you like Kurdish food?” she whispered to him.
“I’m crazy about kibbeh hammusta soup, and okra in tomato sauce, and fried kubbeh filled with meat,” he demonstrated impressive knowledge of Kurdish cuisine for someone who had only read her personal file this morning, and learned anything he could about her and her ethnicity.