by Nathan Ronen
Arik pulled Joe over to an out-of-the-way corner. “I apologize for not sharing the fact that I was coming to Morocco with you. I’m lucky that you and Louis-Pierre are friends.”
“That’s fine,” Joe Amar said understandingly. “That’s what our line of work is like. The moment I heard from the French that a senior Mossad operative was here, I realized there might be things I’m not a part of, and so I didn’t ask too many questions and didn’t get all offended. It’s nothing personal, after all. The next day, the Three Graces arrived here from Paris and told me they’d been following you and saw you board a Moroccan Air Force plane, and then I put it all together and figured out it was you.”
Arik approached Alma, Lia and Ella and apologized to them as well. He was relieved that they had used their judgment and not sounded the alarm over his disappearance. They told him they had followed him to Le Bourget Airport and managed to gain access to the takeoff list. The only plane departing at that hour was a military Moroccan aircraft, and therefore they had concluded that he was involved in a mission beyond their security clearance. For that reason, they had waited for instructions, as protocol dictated.
After a few glasses of calvados cider, which warmed the atmosphere, Arik realized that Louis-Pierre, head of the Moroccan extension of DGSE, the French intelligence agency, had once been a member of France’s Special Forces, a battalion commander in the Parachute Dragoon Regiment commando unit, and from there, had transitioned to the General Directorate for External Security (DGSE), where he had served in a unit similar in nature to the Israeli Mossad’s Caesarea Operations Division.
“How long have you been here?” Arik asked.
“I’ve been stuck here for eight years now. They stabbed me in the back,” Louis-Pierre replied with suppressed anger, but did not elaborate.
Michel, Louis-Pierre’s assistant, walked in in the middle of the meal and whispered something in his boss’s ear, evoking a smile of satisfaction.
“Excellent. Let’s raise a glass of Grand Marnier to you, to your station commander Joe Amar, his talented assistant Momi Castiel, and to you, the three beautiful Israeli women. You’re about to split up. Joe and Momi, you’ll be the first to leave. Three Graces, we’ve ordered a cab for you, and you’ll drive around the city a bit before showing up at the rendezvous spot. And you, Arik, will board a fishing boat owned by one of our collaborators, which will pick you up from the fishing dock in the town of Mohammedia, south of Casablanca, reaching Ceuta toward morning. You’ll have an hour to wait before you all board the ferry to Gibraltar. Ceuta is Spanish territory, it’s true, but it’s still teeming with Moroccan agents, and you won’t be safe until you’re on European soil.”
Arik warmly embraced Louis-Pierre, who handed him a computer flash drive. “Here’s a copy of some interesting material about your friend Kadiri. Don’t forget that we’ve already been here in Morocco for over a hundred years, and yet promising a French passport to a local collaborator and his family still provides him with powerful motivation.”
“I get it. And I agree,” Arik said. “People are definitely a useful tool. You don’t need weapons to make them do what you want. You just need to find the right loophole: money or sex or revenge, and sometimes a bit of flattery as well—and they’re yours.”
* * *
23Casablanca’s Arabic name, meaning “white house,” or in Spanish, casa blanca.
24A cheese from the Normandy region, with a pungent smell of ammonia and bacon.
Chapter 44
Ceuta Ferry Dock, Ceuta, Spanish Morocco
The Israeli contingency was already waiting for Arik and Louis-Pierre at the fishing dock in the town of Mohammedia, consisting of Joe Amar, the head of the Mossad station in Morocco, and his assistant Momi Castiel, holding a laptop. Arik took it from him and entered the shed in which the collaborator stored his fishing nets.
“I need you guys here to translate for me,” he told the two of them, inserting the USB flash drive into the laptop, plugging in the earphones and powering it on. He was listening to a recording of the meeting of the traitors plotting against the king, headed by the prince, who was the minister of the interior as well as the king’s brother.
“They’re speaking Berber Arabic,” Arik said, passing the earphones to Joe Amar. “I need you to translate for me.”
“This is dynamite,” Joe Amar whispered, his jaw dropping. “Is this real? Where did you get it?”
Arik did not reply, instead requesting, “Make an encrypted copy of this material and send the flash drive urgently to the Office in Israel via the Paris station, using a courier with a diplomatic pouch. Tell him to give it to my secretary Claire.”
Arik examined the photocopied material implicating Prince Mansouri and General Kadiri, realizing he now had leverage that might save him from losing his job, perhaps tilting the balance in his favor. He was pleased, but it was too soon to reveal his satisfaction.
Arik decided it would be better for them to split up again in case they were being followed. Joe Amar, Momi Castiel and the Graces headed for Ceuta by land in two groups, while Arik and the collaborator sailed by sea. The Atlantic Ocean was not kind to the little fishing boat. The high waves jostled it wildly, and the dinner and alcohol Arik had consumed before setting sail caused him to be violently ill. None of the ship’s crew members addressed him or asked him any questions. They were experienced collaborators, familiar with the rules of the game.
The lights of the Port of Ceuta were twinkling from afar when a swift speedboat joined the Moroccan fishing boat and Arik was transferred to it. The boat speedily evaded the prying eyes of a Spanish patrol frigate attempting to thwart the smuggling of refugees from Africa to Europe. The man sailing the boat handed Arik an envelope with a ferry ticket, several hundred euro and a French passport. The ferry was scheduled to leave for Gibraltar in about two hours. He pointed toward the ferry dock, said, “Pier 23,” and merged into the large marina among thousands of yachts.
Arik was walking from the docks of the marina toward the ferry harbor when he suddenly noticed two figures standing with their hands in the pockets of their jackets, watching the access road on which pedestrians walked to the ferries. Another group of people with bulges in their shirts were standing next to the cars driving onto the ferry. The face of the first man was familiar to him: Colonel Akil bin Kureishi. Next to him stood a man who looked like an athlete, apparently a professional assassin. Arik had no doubt that additional Moroccan agents were scanning the crowd for him.
Officially, the Moroccan officer had no legal authority within the territory of Spanish Morocco, but Arik knew very well that in this part of the world, a few bills could smooth over every law, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the two were carrying a firearm or a commando knife. Especially considering the fact that most of the local workers and police officers were Moroccans whose family members lived on the Moroccan side of the border, and therefore were vulnerable to being blackmailed or to pressure by Moroccan intelligence.
In front of the boarding gate for the third ferry leaving Spanish Ceuta for Gibraltar was a brick shed, painted white, with a corrugated tin roof, containing large barrels of fuel. Arik walked inside, taking care not to slip on the diesel stains on the floor. From here, he could survey his surroundings without being discovered until the time the ferry sailed. He glanced at his watch nervously, waiting for the last moment in which he could escape the assassins on his trail and board the ferry. In the meantime, he tried to think of a diversion plan, but could not find a solution.
And then he spotted them. The Three Graces team had arrived. They were sitting on the ground in front of Kureishi and his shadowy companion. Alma played a wooden flute while the second team member accompanied her on guitar, and the third pretended to be reading a book. However, Ella, Lia and Alma were seeking out Arik’s form, already expecting to see him there. He couldn’t see Joe Amar or his ass
istant Momi Castiel and concluded that they were worriedly running around near the taxi or bus station, where passengers were disembarking. He didn’t dare join them, as he was certain Moroccan intelligence personnel were following them.
Arik tried to improve his vantage point inside the shed. He climbed a barrel, but slipped and fell backwards. The empty barrel landed with an echoing thud that was heard everywhere. Colonel Kureishi turned his head and immediately began to run toward the shed, accompanied by the athletically built man who was holding a concealed knife against his body.
Arik waited behind the doorway and kicked the man’s hand, causing the knife to fly off. He hit the man’s throat with his elbow. A cracking sound rang out, and the man grabbed hold of his throat, croaking, then fell to his knees, his breathing labored. Arik picked up the knife and thrust it into the Moroccan agent’s carotid artery. A stream of arterial blood burst from his mouth. Arik grabbed hold of his head and covered the man’s mouth, muffling the sound of his death rattle. He didn’t hear the colonel coming in behind him, his gun, equipped with a silencer, extended before him as he maintained his distance from Arik. Arik raised his hands in surrender, out of options.
Akil’s lips curved in a victorious smile. But he didn’t sense Alma sneaking up on him. The Kidon warrior pricked his neck with immense speed, using a tiny needle that emerged from a large ring on her finger. Nerve-blocking chemicals invaded Kureishi’s veins with immense pressure, and his legs collapsed like rubber. His first thought was that he had been stung by a bee. He held the back of his neck and turned around just in time to see the young girl smiling at him in amicable apology. Kureishi tried to turn his gun toward her, but his muscles did not respond. He tried to call out to his allies outside for help, but only a dry gurgle emerged from his throat.
The two other “tourists,” Ella and Lia, entered the storage shed, quickly inserting their hands into the crevices of the Moroccan security agents’ clothes and producing their wallets, IDs, gun and blood-stained knife. All items were gathered in a trash bag hidden within the guitar, which was immediately packed back into its opaque case. This incriminating evidence would be tossed along with the guitar into the depths of the Mediterranean Sea during the ferry crossing.
Kureishi and the assassin were dead. A Spanish pathologist whom Joe Amar and his assistant visited would later testify before the Spanish police that the two died from sudden, identical incidents of cardiac arrest. The Three Graces drug the corpses to the corner of the shed, piling empty barrels around them as a temporary hiding place.
“Thank you,” Arik whispered to them, finding a dirty sink to wash his blood-stained hands. Blood that was not his own.
“Thank the good people at the Israel Institute for Biological Research in Ness Ziona, and our Technology Division,” Alma chuckled.
The coast was now clear for Arik to escape onto the ferry through the pedestrian gate. He handed over his French state passport and his ticket and boarded the ferry, as the girls maintained ongoing eye contact while also taking care to stay some distance behind him.
“How long till we get to Gibraltar?” Arik asked the deck officer standing near him.
“Forty-five minutes,” the man replied. “It’s over there.” He pointed at the rock covered with morning mist on the other end of the strait.
For some reason, this short interval seemed to Arik like the longest hour of his life. He sat there with the Three Graces seated around him as if embracing him from a safe distance, imbuing him with confidence.
Chapter 45
Mossad Headquarters in Tel Aviv
The flight home from Gibraltar via London was long and tiring. Mossad staff booked Arik a one-way business-class flight. When he arrived at Ben Gurion Airport, his driver was waiting for him, telling him the Mossad Director Galili wanted to see him the moment he arrived.
“How are you, Arik?” Galili asked coolly when Arik entered his office, still wearing the turtleneck sweater and the red windbreaker, despite the heat outside. Galili pointed at a chair across from him, instructing Arik to sit down.
“Tell me what happened, and don’t skimp on the details,” he said with artificial warmth.
Arik described his misadventures during his two days in Morocco to Izzo Galili, including the fact that he had traveled to Morocco in violation of Galili’s explicit order to only meet Kadiri in Paris. He was businesslike, praising Galili’s decision to involve the French, a decision that had saved his life. He also praised Louis-Pierre, the representative of France’s intelligence agency, the DGSE, in Morocco, but did not update Galili about his secret weapon, the flash drive Louis-Pierre had given him, which could incriminate Prince Mansouri and his people.
“Why didn’t you call to tell me you were traveling without a security detail, despite the fact that I explicitly prohibited you from doing so?” Galili’s expression conveyed extreme gravity and severity.
“From an official standpoint, you’re right. I should have, but I found out that General Kadiri, head of the Moroccan security agency, was traveling to the southern Sahara to handle a problem they’re having with the Polisario there. I had a small window of opportunity, which he was willing to give me, and so that was the decision I made as a commander in the field.”
Arik knew he had violated Galili’s explicit instruction not to travel to Morocco without security. However, as head of the Operations Administration and a responsible person, he thought that under the particular circumstances, Galili would be able to understand his reasoning.
Galili did not understand. Arik’s conduct went against his character and education. “You know, this morning Joe Amar, our station commander in Rabat, was summoned to the Moroccan Ministry of the Interior and received a writ of deportation. He’s considered persona non grata, and has to leave Morocco within twenty-four hours, along with his entire Israeli team. From what I understood from him, they’re also deporting your new friend, Louis-Pierre, and his people.”
“It’s Kadiri, that son of a bitch,” Arik blurted out.
“Don’t try to weasel out of this or blame others. You have a tendency to always create chaos around you. I was warned about you,” Galili said sourly. “You never fully follow instructions. You always have to do it your way. I don’t like your improvisations.”
Arik experience a sense of déjà vu. It was true that he had never walked the straight and narrow, but he always produced results. Unlike people who had originally come from the Air Force, a very technical and regimented corps in terms of rules, procedures and instructions, Arik always preferred to rely on creativity, improvisation and intuition—traits that were usually highly appreciated in the Office.
Galili ruminated for several seconds, choosing his words carefully. “Arik, we’ve been working together for six months now, right? And you’re providing me with more and more proof that apparently, you’re not a good fit as my deputy. If we examine the results of your field operations so far, you’re more like a bull in a china shop.”
Arik eyed him with a cynical gaze. “Have you ever read Homer’s Odyssey?”
“Do you think you’re in some kind of storyteller’s convention?” Galili asked angrily.
Arik smiled pleasantly, quietly saying, “Odysseus isn’t an experienced warrior like Achilles. He’s not an outstanding archer like Apollo, and he’s not even speedy like Hermes. In fact, he’s not really the best at anything. And yet despite all that, no one can beat him, because he’s a man of many wiles. With all due humility, Galili, I suggest you exercise a bit of patience. We at the Mossad aren’t people who know everything about one thing. We’re not solo pilots cruising at high altitude like you were. We work as a team on the ground. And like Odysseus, I plan for the longterm. And I think I have a plan to sort out this mess.”
“Okay,” Galili said, temporarily conciliatory, swallowing the insult he had sustained. “I’m listening.”
Arik shared his p
lan with him.
Galili’s expression remained sour, but he said, “Okay. I’m authorizing your trip to France to meet Admiral Lacoste.” He was thinking to himself that he had nothing to fear. He had been planning for quite a while to replace Arik with a friend of his, an Air Force pilot he wanted by his side as his deputy. And now Arik was about to fall flat on his face, and he would have the opportunity to get rid of him without alienating the prime minister who had appointed him.
Chapter 46
General Directorate for External Security (DGSE) Headquarters, Paris
The headquarters of the General Directorate for External Security, subordinate to the French Minister of National Defense, was located at 141 Boulevard Mortier in the Ménilmontant Quarter, Paris’s 20th Arrondissement.
Louis-Pierre Dillier, exiled from his role as head of the DGSE bureau in Rabat, Morocco, was sitting glumly in his new office. He had been assigned a desk job as an analyst specializing in North Africa in the Strategic Assessment Division. His office was comfortable, and the salary was more than reasonable, but he hated being an “office mouse,” just one more “functionary,” as state employees were called in French.
The phone call he received on Monday morning brought him great joy. Adrenaline hurtled through his veins once more, restoring the smile to his face. He mumbled a few indistinct syllables to his secretary. She understood that he was going out for some fresh air, and would be back by lunchtime. After a short walk, he entered the gates of the famous Père Lachaise Cemetery, purchasing a map to the gravesites of the famous artists.
On a bench under a giant chestnut tree, next to the grave of Jewish-Italian painter Amadeo Modigliani, he found the man who had made him smile again. Not far from him stood a pair of lovers that Louis-Pierre identified as the security team watching over his esteemed guest.