by Nathan Ronen
“An Israeli wine with a French name?” he asked, eyeing the label on the bottle.
“We Israelis are making progress over time. Once, when I would return from Paris to Israel, I’d always be saddled with a list of demands from friends for French cheese and wine. And now this Israeli wine has won a gold medal from your wine association,” Arik replied proudly.
“So we should let it breathe, right?” The admiral handed the bottle and the flowers to the butler.
After they sat down to eat at the table in the stylish dining room, furnished with antiques, the admiral began: “I’m sure you’ve already figured out my decision in regard to your request concerning Louis-Pierre. So, what’s your plan?”
“The Royal Guard, commanded by Kadiri’s men, is entrusted with the king’s security. I think the king has to be removed from the scene immediately,” Arik replied.
“We can organize an urgent meeting for him with the French president at Élysée Palace, on some topic we’ll think up later,” Admiral Lacoste agreed.
“The moment the king is here, we need to neutralize and arrest his bodyguards, replace them with your people, and smuggle the king, under tight security, to his royal villa in the Riviera,” Arik continued. “Simultaneously, I suggest staging a visit from the king at the inauguration of the new Grand Mosque on the coast of Casablanca, in order to encourage the conspirators to take action against him. We at the Mossad will utilize our Spartacus software to plant a fake execution order for the Islamic Jihad cell that we estimate is already active within Morocco. We’ll camouflage it as instructions from the Islamic Jihad HQ in Marseille. That way, we’ll control the time and the preparations for the hit. You’ll track their responses using your spy ship, monitoring their transmissions. If they take the bait, they’ll be preparing to carry out the coup immediately after announcing that the king was killed in a terrorist attack, and his elder brother has ascended to the throne in his stead.”
Admiral Lacoste was quiet, deep in thought.
Louis-Pierre was the one to break the silence. “But what do we do with the king? From what you just said, I gather that the king and his family will be hidden in his villa in Nice. Well, then, who’ll go to the inauguration of the Grand Mosque in Casablanca?”
“I said the king’s visit would be staged, and I meant that the inauguration of the mosque will be attended by a lookalike. Someone who resembles the king in appearance. Someone who will be made up to look exactly like him. I’m well familiar with Arab presidents and royal families. They always retain doubles who ride around in cars identical to their own, and their bureaus are always spreading conflicting information about their true whereabouts. That’s how much they distrust their security agencies. Iraqi president Saddam Hussein had five doubles who would inaugurate public institutions or memorials throughout Iraq in his name on the same day, and no one knew if the real dictator was actually there or elsewhere.”
The attendees laughed.
“If things go off track, at worst, we’ve sacrificed a pawn,” Arik said.
“It sounds daring to me, but too much like a Hollywood action flick,” Lacoste said skeptically.
“But what happens if our French force is thrust into crossfire with the Moroccan terrorists? It won’t only be my head on the chopping block, but all our heads,” Lacoste said. “And actually, who said it would be bad for the French if Prince Mohammed Fouad Al Mansouri takes the throne? We’ll let him and his people know that if he does it with a minimum amount of bloodshed, compared to Arab standards, maybe French interests won’t be harmed, and the chance of our soldiers being killed becomes nonexistent.” Arik listened on in silence.
“The other option is to continue to support the current king as the lesser of two evils,” the admiral continued. “If we help him eliminate the conspirators, he’ll be permanently in our debt. And the childish, passive character he exhibits in running the country actually creates a regime vacuum that allows us to push the products of our French industry at ONA, the state holding company controlled by the king’s cohorts.”
Lacoste noticed Arik squirming in his seat. “What’s wrong? Is that analysis too Machiavellian for you? It’s not like you Israelis thoroughly investigate the conduct of the dictators in Africa or South America to whom you sell munitions and weapons.”
“I think that as far as you’re concerned, it’s better to maintain the devil you know than gamble on an unknown devil. Am I right?”
The Frenchmen nodded in affirmation.
“Well, if that’s the case, I only see two courses of action available to us: we have to convince the king that his regime is in danger, and that he and his family might be slaughtered if he doesn’t take action. We’ve got to show him the video you obtained from your agent, Kadiri’s technician. When the king sees the clip and hears the treasonous speech his brother Prince Mansouri gave, what he had to say about him, his wealth, his sexual orientation and his questionable character before the commanders of the army and the heads of the Berber tribes—he’ll go nuts. And the other thing, if we’re talking about being Machiavellian, let’s use Kadiri against Kadiri.”
“I’m afraid I’m not getting where you’re going here,” Lacoste said.
“I suggest that you, as head of the French security administration, invite him for an urgent one-on-one meeting here in Paris. When it’s just the two of you, tell him you’ve received information that the prince wants to kill his brother, and that you’re asking General Kadiri to help the current king. If the French are asking him for a favor, Kadiri will immediately start calculating which of these scenarios is more profitable for him. In order to sway him to betrayal, you have to organize a video conference with the king, who will personally tell him that if he manages to prevent the coup, he is guaranteed to be appointed as the next minister of the interior or prime minister, and will also receive a handsome bonus in the form of Prince Mohammed Fouad Al Mansouri’s villa in Marbella, in southern Spain. In my humble opinion, he won’t be able to resist, and will agree to betray his partner the prince, who, at the moment, has not committed to appointing him to any future role,” Arik concluded.
“The question is whether he’ll believe it. You said yourself that he was a suspicious man,” Lacoste said.
“That’s the true beauty of the plan. You’re using the man’s own character against him. He’s so corrupt that he believes that everyone is corrupt, and therefore, he’s swept into every conspiracy. He’s a bit like a thief who looks at the world and sees nothing but thieves surrounding him. We might need to give him a little push here by planting some fake intel indicating that Prince Mansouri intends to get rid of him after the coup, because he’s uneasy about General Kadiri accruing too much power,” Arik said.
“Wow. I like that. You’re the real Machiavelli here, Arik,” Lacoste flattered him.
“Thanks,” Arik mumbled.
“If Kadiri falls for it, we have to use the old Roman tactic of ‘divide and conquer.’ He should be invited to a private meeting with the king, who will directly instruct him to initiate a discreet coordinated effort to arrest all the conspirators before the inauguration of the Grand Mosque. The moment the process is in motion, we have to ensure the loyalty of Royal Guard personnel subordinate to Kadiri, whom I would reinforce with your own security people, dressed in Moroccan garb. Kadiri won’t know, of course, that this whole time, the real king is hiding elsewhere in France. As far as he’s concerned, the king’s visit and the inauguration of the mosque are a routine security operation.
“When the wave of arrests begins, separate the detainees and isolate them completely from the world. The moment we’ve broken down the collective conspiracy and turned them into individual components, each of them dealing with his own fate, they’ll be reduced to a state where each of them is only concerned about his own skin and seeking ways to cooperate in order to save himself and his family. As you know, in Morocco, they don
’t merely execute the accused, but his entire family as well, so they know what they could lose. At that moment, you’re setting in motion the Prisoner’s Dilemma, in which every prisoner incriminates his fellow traitors. After some beating and ‘mild physical persuasion,’ they’ll start singing like canaries, which we’ll need to record and show the others. You’re leaving the cherry on top for dessert. After the big ceremony, Kadiri is left on his own, and then we’ll let the king and his people take care of him, the way Moroccans know how to do.”
“So, what’s my role—to babysit the king?” Louis-Pierre asked.
“Your role is critical,” Arik said. “If the admiral approves, of course, you’ll be Commander of Special Forces protecting the fake king during the ceremony in Morocco. And you need a strong, skilled intervention force that will step into action only if the plan goes off track. You have to make a plan to eliminate the Islamic Jihad cell at the inauguration of the Grand Mosque if Kadiri changes his mind and betrays us again. In any case, the real king, who is the main asset here, will be safe in Nice.”
Louis-Pierre was enthusiastic: “If Prince Mansouri manages to eliminate the lookalike and declare himself as the heir to the throne, the real king will surprise them, appearing on French TV and on the international networks. The French government and the other European Union countries will refuse to recognize the coup as legitimate, and if we need a display of power, an American aircraft carrier will show up near the coast of Morocco, and fighter jets will buzz Rabat.”
“That’s an excellent plan,” the admiral said, “but I need authorization from the minister of defense and the president. In addition, it should be obvious to you that there will be no joint Israeli-French force. No French president will allow Israel to gain a foothold in a French protectorate.”
Arik felt cheated. He was the one who had conceived the entire strategic plan, and yet he was about to lose control. “Who’ll tell the king?”
The admiral hesitated briefly.
“I know the king’s advisor, Nathan Amar, a Jewish millionaire from Paris,” Arik tried to thrust his foot in the doorway.
“No need, thank you,” the admiral smiled. “Leave the entire operation up to us French. We’ll take care of it the way we’re well-accustomed to doing. We’ll have the king sign the official arrest warrants based on the names we’ll get from your ‘friend’ Kadiri. We’ll leave it to the king’s people and the members of the new security guard to sign the last warrant, for Kadiri’s own arrest. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of people who will happily volunteer to be responsible for his execution, for no charge whatsoever.”
“What’s our role, then?” Arik asked, his disappointment obvious.
“We still have to coordinate and determine that. The beginning of operational activity will be set according to the cyber information you can collect from the communications of those people in Marseille. We’ll be ready, in any case,” the admiral said.
“But aren’t you monitoring them too? Actually, what you’re very politely implying to me is that you don’t need anything from us. Am I right?”
“Je suis désolé, Arik, mon ami—I’m sorry, Arik, my friend,” the admiral said affectionately, placing his hand on Arik’s shoulder. “You’re much better than us on the cyberattack front. I trust you more than I trust my own people. It’s true that we’re a global superpower with capabilities and resources, but we need your technological abilities and cooperation.”
“I’m wary, mon admiral,” Arik said.
“Of what?” the admiral wondered.
“That the whole story will leak. There are too many pro-Arab forces in your security agencies. I’m afraid the terrorists will figure out they’re being monitored, and will begin to flood the network with random, confusing chatter. I think we need to return to the good old HUMINT26 methods.”
The admiral examined him closely.
“We need to find a wagging tongue to tell us what’s going on from within,” Arik said. “Someone who’ll provide reliable testimony on what’s taking place on the inside, and when.”
“We’ll think about it,” the admiral said, clinking his spoon against his glass to signal that the time had come for another round of wine.
* * *
26 HUMINT, or Human Intelligence, is based on the use of agents and informers.
Chapter 49
The Moroccan Intelligence Station in Marseille
In the early morning hours, a Kidon Unit raid team, wearing black from head to foot and clad in rubber shoes, infiltrated the fences of the building known as Rashid’s Internet Café. The building was located at the edge of the market, surrounded by a tall fence, with no curious neighbors, and housed the substation of the Moroccan intelligence agency in Marseilles.
Force commander Daniel Poselanitz, holding a Glock 21 pistol, was aware of the sophisticated, hidden alarm system installed onsite, which also controlled the security camera system. A slight nod of his head was all it took for one of the fighters, who specialized in neutralizing alarm systems, to walk over to the control panel, break into it using a kit intended for this purpose, and connect to a channel scanner that disrupted its activity. With a few bypasses and a few software commands, the man used his cell phone to hack the computer system supervising the cameras. He created a momentary disruption in the screens, sufficient to rewind the recording. The guard at the security post was now watching surveillance footage displaying the interior of the house an hour ago.
The time had come to break into the house itself. After a brief prodding of the old lock, the door opened. The space of the large room serving as an internet café was empty. Only the remains of black coffee, half-eaten pita bread left on the bar and the fact that someone had forgotten to turn off the big fan indicated the lively activity that had taken place during the evening before. Daniel knew that the living quarters of Rashid and his family were on the second floor. The wooden stairs leading to this floor creaked, making the team members freeze in their spots. From above, they could hear the snoring of a man covering up the creak of the stairs. His bedroom door was closed. A thin tube was inserted under the door, while on its other side, a Kidon warrior peeked in and saw the silhouette of the plump Rashid sleeping diagonally in his big bed. A small, slim form slept on a mattress at his feet. A commotion was audible at the end of the corridor. One of the team members approached the corner cautiously and observed three bodyguards immersed in a rerun of the soccer game between Borussia and Real Madrid, shouting encouragement to the teams’ stars. Computer screens were affixed to the walls, displaying the conditions in the house; everything appeared quiet and abandoned.
Poselanitz mimed a throat-cutting gesture, and two warriors followed him into the security room, shooting the bodyguards in the head at close range with silencer-equipped pistols. After emitting a few throaty barks, the guards fell to the floor silently, like sacks of potatoes.
The snoring from the room continued uninterrupted.
Rashid was the target. The bedroom door was made of full wood with a cast-iron deadbolt. It could not be broken into with a kick or a shoulder thrust. The commander nodded to one of the fighters, who extracted a cylinder of material resembling Play-Doh from his combat pouch, shaped it with his hands like dough, and tucked it into the key hole and the door hinges. He pushed the artillery fuse into the top right corner, connecting the wires to the wireless accelerator. Daniel held the activation trigger, signaling to the force members to retreat beyond the corner. The Semtex27 explosion blew Rashid’s door off its hinges. The girl sleeping at his feet screamed in fear, covering her nakedness with a sheet. Despite his massive body, Rashid was quick. He inserted a hand under the pillow, retrieved a gun, ran half-naked toward the bathroom and barricaded himself inside.
However, what Rashid didn’t know was that the Mossad’s break-in and elimination crews never worked alone. Another team was hiding in the yard, serving as
backup for any eventuality. A third getaway team sat in a commercial van parked nearby, while a fourth team was waiting in a car parked in an adjacent alley to stop any reinforcement forces that might approach the scene.
Rashid pressed a hidden button in the bathroom wall. The wall of the bathtub rose with a click. Rashid lifted the bathtub, revealing a square opening, from which an iron ladder descended to the cellar. With an effort, he managed to cram himself inside, pulling the handle in the bathtub closed over his head.
A few seconds later, the bathroom door was breached after the force commander aimed several shots at its lock. He was amazed to find the room empty. The ventilation window was small and blocked with bars, eliminating the possibility that Rashid had exited through it.
Force commander Poselanitz beat his fist against the wall angrily, listening for a hollow sound, but found none.
“Fatty got away from us. Check outside. Block all the exits. He must have had an escape tunnel.”
The screeching tires of a red Peugeot 605, bursting out of the backyard and disrupting the silence of the night, solved the mystery.
“That’s him. Close in on him!” force commander Daniel shouted into his tiny microphone.
The van moved to block Rashid’s escape path, and he put the car in reverse gear and began to drive backwards at full speed. However, the second getaway car drove in from the alley to block him. Rashid exited the car in his underwear and tried to escape barefoot, holding on to his gun and blinded by the headlights aimed at his eyes. He realized that he was surrounded. Five figures in black were standing across from him, calmly targeting him with their Heckler & Koch UMP45 submachine guns, armed with silencers. He dropped his gun to the ground and raised his hands in surrender.
“Don’t worry, we only want to talk,” one of the figures told Rashid in strangely accented Moroccan.