by Nathan Ronen
“How are you, Arik?” Louis-Pierre smiled, hugging him warmly.
Arik evaded the powerful grip of his handshake. “Excellent. Thank you,” he said. “And what’s going on with you?”
“I… feel like this place,” he gestured broadly at the entire area of the cemetery. “I’m also a corpse in a fancy grave,” he said dejectedly, sitting down next to Arik on the stone bench.
Arik knew exactly how the man felt. When he had been wounded during operational activity against the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine in Geneva, he, too, had undergone a recuperation period during which he had worked a desk job for Special Ops until being returned to a field position as commander of the Mossad’s Paris station.
“I want us to continue handling that business we left behind us in Morocco, this time collaborating,” Arik said. “I’m going to do it right. Today, I’m meeting my old friend Admiral Lacoste, and I wanted to suggest he appoint you as commander or coordinator of our shared activity. I wanted to get your consent first.”
Louis-Pierre’s grin and the spark igniting in his eyes gave him his answer.
At precisely 11 a.m., he entered the courtyard of DGSE HQ in Paris, driving a Peugeot 4007, a compact crossover SUV. The director’s office manager came out to meet Arik and reverently opened the door for their guest. Arik followed his host, who was asking polite questions about the weather and the traffic on his way, leading him to the office of Admiral Bernard August Lacoste, director of DGSE.
“What brings you to request an urgent one-on-one meeting with me, Arik, mon ami?” the admiral’s baritone voice rang out. He bore a surprising resemblance to singer Yves Montand. Arik and the admiral had been friends since back in the period when Arik had still been head of the Mossad’s Paris station, while Lacoste had headed the counter-terrorism department. Working under East German patronage they had worked together extensively to thwart terrorist activity by the Baader-Meinhof group.
“About two months ago, we warned you about a money-smuggling route for funding terrorist activity by the Islamic Jihad organization, with the tracks leading to Marseille. We hacked the Darknet to access the computers of hackers working for Islamic agencies, and discovered an extensive correspondence that led us to the conclusion that a plot to bring down the king of Morocco was in the works. I know that following our information, you moved your spy ship Dupuy de Lome from the Black Sea to the coast of Morocco, and began to monitor transmissions by members of the royal family. I also personally benefited from this, as it was only thanks to your listening in on a conversation between the prince, who’s also the minister of the interior, and the head of the Moroccan security agency, General Abdelhak Kadiri, that my life was saved.”
“Yes, Prince Mohammed Fouad Al Mansouri has been on our radar for a long time.” The admiral was clearly fluent in the details. “You Israelis brought us the information that allowed us and the DGSI to conduct surveillance in Marseille. When the time is right, we’ll carry out arrests as well.”
“Arrests?” Arik was perplexed. “We’re spies. We have to be just as patient as our enemies.”
“I don’t understand,” the admiral said.
“Let their funds keep flowing. That way we can follow the money without arousing suspicion, and keep them complacent. Maybe that’ll allow us to stay one step ahead of them. Keep your eye on them, listen in, make them waste precious time and efforts initiating and planning operations that will never come to fruition. I say you should arrest them only in order to prevent an explosion or a violent attack.”
“I thought you Israelis were more hyperactive. Now I understand that I was wrong,” Lacoste said.
“I have an idea how to put an elegant end to this affair, but in order to do so, I’m asking you to consider appointing someone from your ranks to command a joint Israeli-French taskforce. Someone who’s well familiar with the turf we’re dealing with.”
“Someone from my ranks, here at DGSE HQ?” The admiral was baffled, turning to his assistant, who was taking down the minutes of the meeting. The man shrugged in incomprehension.
“In Morocco, I was very impressed by the professionalism of your station commander, Louis-Pierre Dillier, formerly in the Special Forces.”
The admiral’s expression betrayed no emotion.
“Following his deportation from Morocco, apparently due to the aid he provided me, he was declared persona non grata over there, and he’s currently been assigned a junior staff position here.”
“I don’t know the man well, but it’s highly irregular for an ally’s intelligence service to attempt to determine who will command a joint operation headed by a French intelligence officer, don’t you think?” Lacoste replied with a barb.
“You’re right, of course, admiral, sir. Forgive me for my lack of manners and my Israeli irreverence. I’m not aspiring to determine anything for you. I just want to express a personal preference for your consideration. This is someone who, based on the brief time I saw him in action, I’ve learned to trust as a professional. He’s a field operative who is impressively knowledgeable about Morocco and its cultural conduct, so different from the standards of the Western world.” Arik gazed directly at the admiral.
“Give me the personal file for Louis-Pierre Dillier, at the Strategic Assessment Division,” the admiral instructed his administrative assistant over the phone.
“Admiral, sir, the State of Israel is not a superpower like France. We’re a small country with humble capabilities. Our shared agenda is the result of different perspectives. We want to prevent the global Islamic Jihad movement, which is subordinate to the al-Qaeda movement, from harming us and Western targets all over the world. While it’s in your best interest to retain Morocco and North Africa as a French, pro-Western sphere of influence. And, of course, to prevent Islamic terrorist activity within the borders of France.”
The admiral was listening attentively.
“It won’t come as a surprise if I tell you that my boss, Mossad Director Avigdor Galili, was opposed to our involvement in Morocco. As far as he’s concerned, when Arabs kill Arabs, that’s good news for the Jews. But we both know that life is a lot more complex than that. That’s why we went into this adventure, intending to preserve our ally in the Arab Muslim world, just like during the reign of the previous king and his father. And we’ve always done it in coordination with you.”
“Not exactly. If you’d asked me about your private initiative opposite General Abdelhak Kadiri before taking action, I would have told you to treat him with an equal amount of respect and suspicion. The man is loyal primarily to himself, and won’t hesitate to betray his current ally this time as well, if he finds out the cards currently in his hand aren’t exactly promoting him.”
“I understand,” Arik murmured with embarrassment that was obvious to his host.
“I can only tell you that we don’t have long. According to what we know today, the conspirators have upped the pace, and at any minute, might come to a decision to harm the king and proceed with a military coup.”
“If that’s the case, then we really have to move quickly,” Arik said, determined.
“But you still haven’t presented your plan to me, Monsieur Bar-Nathan. At the moment, I’m tired and jetlagged after returning from Réunion Island, in the Indian Ocean, last night. Why don’t we meet at seven in the evening for dinner at my place? Until then, I’ll look into your request regarding the mission commander and give you my decision.”
The admiral rose, signaling that the meeting had come to an end. Arik shook his hand warmly. Being invited to the home of the head of the General Directorate for External Security was not a routine occurrence, and Arik wondered why this honor had suddenly been bestowed upon him.
Chapter 47
Kaplan Hotel, Zion Square, Jerusalem
Sasha was summoned to the small hotel located on Havatzelet St., in the triangle betwee
n Jaffa Street, at the center of Jerusalem, and Zion Square, at eleven a.m. The hotel was a popular meeting spot for Shin Bet agents and their informers, who arrived there discreetly via public transportation from the Old City and the West Bank. It was located in an ancient building designated for preservation and constructed in the Ottoman architectural style.
The owner of the hotel, Elinka Waterman, a hefty man, round faced and blue eyed, greeted him at the reception desk. He was a senior Shin Bet veteran who had once commanded the Jerusalem region, and used his retirement compensation to purchase the hotel.
“I’m Sasha. I think I’m expected here.”
“Room 344, third floor,” Waterman replied. “The elevator’s behind you.”
Sasha preferred the stairs, which he took two at a time.
Joykie, the tough security officer, a large woman and the former Uzbek Sambo25 champion, was standing at the entrance to the room. When Sasha tried to walk past her, she let out a growl of dissatisfaction. She eyed him intimidatingly, a wooden toothpick thrust into the gap between her teeth, her right hand playing with the catch of a large Jericho gun holster attached to her belt.
With a heavy Russian accent, she spat out, “Sasha?”
He nodded, and she shifted aside.
Sasha knocked on the heavy wooden door, and heard a familiar voice from inside yelling out, “Come in! It’s open.”
He was only expecting to see Motke Hassin, but was startled to also see Cornfield, the mythological former Mossad director, as well as the faces of several other older men whose facial composites were familiar from the press.
“Sasha, we’re the retired gatekeepers of the State of Israel,” Cornfield’s voice thundered out. “I’ve heard about the good work you’re doing with Geula. Does she suspect you?”
“No. Both of us are busy people, and so our dates are pretty random, and take place mostly on the weekends. They’re usually focused on food and fucking—pardon my blunt language. She uses me to let off steam, but I can’t complain, because she’s a wonderful cook, and compared to food at the dorm cafeteria…”
“It’s time to move on to the next phase,” Motke Hassin interjected. “In the first phase, we set up a trap and caught the baboon. We fed it salt crystals it needs and loves. Now it’s time to make it reveal to us where the water reservoir is.”
Sasha noticed that the people in the room were examining him with piercing gazes. He was curious regarding their identities, but had already learned there was no point in asking.
“It’s time to tell Geula that you happened to overhear at your police unit about a request from the FBI that they investigate what Arthur Schein is doing here, and that apparently he’s suspected of tax evasion and money laundering in the US,” Cornfield said.
“Who is that, and how’s he connected to her?” Sasha asked at last.
“He’s the American secret consultant who accompanies the prime minister everywhere,” said Uri Dinur, the former head of the Shin Bet, “and as far as we know, she hates him. He makes her feel humiliated, mostly because he’s everything that she’s not. He’s a slimy, condescending type from a rich family in Boston, while she’s the impoverished girl who grew up in a poor neighborhood, with a serious self-esteem problem.”
“I’d say there was potential for some blow-ups between the two of them,” Sasha concurred.
“Exactly. And that’s why we have to attack him as a diversion, in order to neutralize her need to protect her boss. If you were to tell her directly that the prime minister is being investigated, she would immediately rush to defend him, running off to tell him, because she feels dog-like loyalty toward him. Don’t forget he’s been grooming her in his office ever since he established his legal practice, and she was an assistant secretary. She’s a simple girl from the humble Nachlaot neighborhood, and it’s only thanks to him that she achieved her status at the most important bureau in the country.”
“Meaning that if you tell her the investigation is focused on Schein, there’s a chance she might actually want to help us get rid of him?” Sasha asked.
“I suppose so,” Cornfield said. “We’ll try to recruit her to get rid of someone who’s threatening her dominance in her boss’s office.”
“I don’t understand how we’re going to do that,” Sasha replied.
“You’re a fighter in the field. Leave the thinking to us, and focus on the operative side of things, which is your domain,” Motke Hassin told him gruffly, producing an angry look from Cornfield, who explained to Sasha, with a father’s patience, “Geula is motivated by a desire for respect. She needs to compensate for her humble origins. The moment you insult her dignity and abjectly humiliate her, the entire debt of loyalty she’s built up in regard to her boss will fall apart, and she’ll willingly start stocking up ammunition to open a file against him, so she can provide intel in return for immunity from being deposed, which as far as she’s concerned, would be the end of the world.”
“How do I do that?” Sasha asked.
“That’s why we have the following recording,” one of the other men said, handing him a manila envelope bearing the address, “Israel Police, Investigation and Intelligence Division.”
Sasha had heard this voice before, and the face was familiar as well. “Nice to meet you, I’m Yair Zipori, the former general police commissioner.” the man with the youthful face smiled at him, shaking his hand.
Sasha automatically straightened and saluted, as Zipori’s laughter rang out.
“Could I listen to it?” Sasha asked, eyeing the envelope.
“Certainly,” Yair Zipori said, producing a laptop from his bag.
He extracted a CD from the envelope, bearing the Israel Police logo along with the words: “Investigation and Intelligence Division. Top Secret—evidence. Recording No. 34, Operation Handsome Boy.”
“Operation Handsome Boy?” Sasha read out in amazement.
“Arthur Schein. Schein means handsome in German,” Zipori replied, a mischievous spark igniting in his eyes. He inserted the CD in his laptop.
The voices of two people talking on the phone and laughing emerged from the computer’s speakers.
Sasha listened, grinning in exuberance as he grasped what was going on.
“Get going, and good luck to you!” He shook the attendees’ hands and departed.
Once they were on their own again, Cornfield said to the gatekeepers, “I don’t like this,” pouring himself some tea from the thermos.
“What don’t you like? I thought we’d already agreed on the monkey tactic,” Motke said.
“I want to catch Galili and his boss Ehud Tzur for corruption and make them quit. I don’t like the fact that we’ve suddenly become whoremongers employing a honey-trap boy to fuck Tzur’s office manager. What kind of intel could she possibly provide us with? That he stole some contributions for his campaign? You know that every single politician, in Israel or abroad, does that kind of thing. In the end, the state attorney will say we don’t have enough evidence, and we’ll be humiliated.”
“The tactics we’re taking make me nervous too, but sometimes, when you’re working with a sophisticated, seasoned politician like Tzur, there’s a risk that, like a gecko that finds itself in danger, he might sacrifice his tail, meaning Galili, while he himself manages to get away with it,” said Uri Dinur.
Shlomo Zimmer, who had been Cornfield’s faithful assistant for years, rose from his seat and began to pace the room. “Gentlemen, you don’t always have to do the right thing in this business. Sometimes it’s better to do the smart thing. Master criminal Al Capone wasn’t captured honestly. He managed to evade arrest by threatening witnesses and bribing senior personnel within law enforcement and the municipal authorities. And do you know what they got him for in the end? Simple tax evasion.”
A bottle of arak was opened and poured into the glasses of tea. Cornfield declined.
“Gentlemen, hunting season is officially open.”
* * *
25 Sambo is a Russian-Soviet martial art and combat sport. The word “SAMBO” is an acronym for SAMozashchita Bez Oruzhiya, which literally translates as “self-defense without weapons.”
Chapter 48
Rue Murillo, Eighth Arrondissement, Paris
At six-forty-five p.m., still in full daylight, the black SUV belonging to the Mossad’s Paris station parked across from the black iron gates of the elegant Lacoste family home on 12 Rue Murillo. It was a street of embassies and art galleries close to Parc Monceau, enclosed between the luxurious boulevards leading to the Place de l'Étoile, with the Arc de Triomphe wedged in at its center.
Arik was holding a luxurious bouquet of flowers, which he had ordered for Madame Lacoste, as well as a bottle of fine Israeli Grand Vin wine from Domaine du Castel Winery in the Judean Hills, which he had received from Haya Calmi, head of the Mossad’s Paris station. He rang the doorbell at precisely seven p.m. and was greeted by a French security officer.
“Good evening, my name is Arik Bar-Nathan. I’m expected,” he said, following the man into the house.
The security officer gestured at a little chair and dialed a number on his phone. A buzz was heard, and the elevator door opened. “One floor up. Have a good evening,” the man said, holding the elevator door open.
Arik was surprised to exit the ancient elevator with its iron lattice door and find himself facing the lanky form of Louis-Pierre, who was waiting for him with a glass of wine. The admiral joined them within a minute. He looked at the handsome bouquet and took it from Arik. “I see you haven’t forgotten your manners from your French era. Unfortunately, Madame Lacoste has gone to our country house in Provence for the weekend with our children, and it’ll only be the four of us tonight,” he said, taking the wine bottle from him as well. “The head of the Special Operations Division, Brigadier Eddy Constantine, will be joining us in about an hour for coffee and dessert.