by Nathan Ronen
“I’ve got all the time in the world, and my father was a butcher. When I skin you, you’ll feel like you’re about to die, but I don’t intend to let you die. I’m going to keep you alive, so that the fear gnaws at every single nerve in your body, every fiber in your body. You’ll lose your mind, but before that, I promise you you’ll spill the beans like every single person here before you whose blood spurted out on these walls. Eventually, you’ll tell me everything I want to know.”
Arik could smell the stench of fear emitted in the sweat emerging from Rashid’s pores, and added the punchline that was always effective with Muslim interrogees: “And in the end, we’ll bury you in the forest, wrapped up in pig skin.”
The promise of a pig burial shocked Rashid, who was a devout Muslim. He believed whole-heartedly that an Islamic shahid, or martyr, was supposed to end up in heaven, where seventy-two virgins would be awaiting him. But if his body was buried wrapped up in the corpse of a pig, he would instead arrive in the depths of hell, and his soul would never know peace. His face expressed his obvious horror.
“Rashid, my friend, we’re not barbarians. I know everything about you. And there are things I can offer you in return for cooperation. The question is, who benefits if Rashid dies and disappears?”
Arik’s words left Rashid confused.
“I don’t understand. Who could profit from my death? The murder of my agents and the disappearance of my entire organization?” he mumbled.
“And don’t forget the slaughter of your entire family, the slaughter of innocent lambs,” Arik added.
“You sons of bitches. You wouldn’t dare. There are laws…” Rashid declared firmly.
Arik burst out in a peal of laughter. “No one will even piss in your direction, Rashid,” he said, bearing down on the most sensitive spots in Rashid’s personality. “You’ll disappear, and so will anyone you ever loved. You won’t leave behind an heir or a legacy. It’ll be as if you never walked among us in this world. You won’t even have a paltry gravestone, since you’ll be buried in the forest, far from home, wrapped in pig skin.”
Rashid was a tough fellow. He kept his silence, while his mind raced frantically.
“Rashid, I consider you a bright guy. You know all about computers. Have you ever heard of the PROMIS28 system?”
Rashid shook his head.
“It’s software developed by our engineers. PROMIS is active 24/7. The moment we inputted your photo and email address, it worked day and night, without needing to sleep or pause. It integrated all your online activity, the sum total of your phone calls, every piece of navigational information you’ve ever typed into your GPS, every transaction on your credit card, all the photos you took, all the information you deleted, every single electronic detail concerning your life. Every app you’ve ever used on your phone. Every particle in the digital trail you ever produced. Including all the material you deleted in your Trash file. We have a full profile of your entire conduct.”
Rashid stayed silent. He didn’t believe it, and was familiar with techniques of mental pressure, and therefore preferred to keep quiet.
I know, for example, that you use Quilt software in your office—is that right?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s a layer of completely legal applications—Google, Twitter, Skype, and others—which conceal apps you don’t want anyone else to see. Is that right?”
Rashid didn’t reply. He wasn’t truly knowledgeable about computers, but knew that the members of his organization had installed masking software on his computer, and they were the ones operating his PC for him when he needed to relay information.
“I see you also use Snapchat on your cell phone, is that right?”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“You know exactly what it is. We found selfies of you with all kinds of young, naked girls on your cell phone. You’re sure those photos delete themselves automatically after you open them. But that’s not exactly true. Because the source is always retained on the sender’s mobile device. And besides, my experts can reconstruct every deletion.”
Rashid was silent.
“I also saw that you’re an active client on the PNP site.”
“What’s this B And B?” he asked, swallowing the ‘P’ and turning it into a ‘B’ in accordance with typical Arab pronunciation.
“It’s nice software that stands for ‘Play and Party.’”
Rashid shook his head, his face contorting as if he had no idea what they were talking about.
“You’re quite a naughty boy. It’s software for people who like to party and have fun. Consuming hard drugs before engaging in sexual activity. I also saw that you were active on Grindr… In short, you’re a real bad boy. Nothing puts you off: you’re a pedophile, and into both men and women. I bet you think you’re a super macho guy.”
Rashid swallowed audibly. “I don’t know, maybe my son accidently downloaded some game by accident. I don’t know anything about it. I don’t understand that stuff at all,” Rashid stayed true to his game.
Arik ran out of patience. “Let me give you a few little examples of what I know about you. The sort of details you wouldn’t want your wife, or your boss, General Abdelhak Kadiri, to find out. For example, that you’ve deposited funds you stole from the Moroccan intelligence agency and transferred them to your private accounts in Switzerland. Or, for example, the photos of you on vacation with your French Christian lover and the child you had together, on the coast of Nice. Pretty boy, by the way. Or the handsome apartment you bought for her in Nice at the Moroccan taxpayer’s expense, or the generous salary you set up for your girlfriend, as if she were part of your list of agents and collaborators.”
Rashid’s eyes began to scurry about in their sockets again. Cold, uncontrollable sweat beaded on his forehead. He realized he was dealing with a professional.
“This software also went over your medical exams and your lab results. We know you’re diabetic, and that you have serious issues with blood pressure, that you’re addicted to crystal meth, which you procure at a sky-high price and snort. You see, our affectionate nickname for this software is ‘The Terminator.’ As far as I’m concerned, all I have to do is organize this data in a legible file and pass it on to your boss Kadiri, including photos of girls and boys from poor Moroccan homes that you seduced to satisfy your own desires, and you’re as good as dead, you and your entire family.”
“But Kadiri steals, too,” Rashid protested.
“That’s right, he does, big time, but he doesn’t like it when others steal from him. Now it’s all up to you. Compared to what your colleagues in Morocco are going to put you through, the little education and persuasion course I’ve set up for you later in the day will be a walk in the park of sorts. The question is whether you need to go through it.”
“What do you want to know,” Rashid asked submissively, his voice breaking, “and what are you willing to offer me in return?”
* * *
28 Prosecutor’s Management Information System
Chapter 52
DGSE Headquarters in Paris
Louis-Pierre was waiting impatiently at the entrance of French intelligence headquarters. About half an hour earlier, Arik had called him from the road, asking him to set up an urgent meeting for him with head of the Special Operations Division, Brigadier Eddy Constantine.
“I don’t like it when the intelligence agency of an allied country commits abduction and torture on French soil,” Brigadier Constantine attacked. Arik looked at his scar-pitted face and kept his silence. “And I like it even less that you’re seeking retroactive legitimization by inviting one of my employees to witness illegal criminal activity, as if blessing an abomination.”
Arik looked at Louis-Pierre, who was burying his head in the ground. He wasn’t angry at Louis-Pierre for informing his
supervisor about Rashid’s kidnapping, although they had agreed that their conversation had never taken place. He should have taken it into account.
“Brigadier, I’m not here to fight with you. I understand that you had to say what you just said for the record or maybe for the recording. Now I’m asking that we sit together in the ‘clean room,’ where we can talk like two intelligence professionals, with no cameras and no recordings.”
Brigadier Constantine hesitated. He wasn’t used to being addressed in this manner. On the other hand, the respect with which Admiral Lacoste referred to the Israeli Mossad in general and to Arik Bar-Nathan in particular made him overcome the demands of his ego.
Constantine pointed at a room down the corridor that was equipped with a special door. Heavy lead curtains lined the walls, preventing any possibility of transmission or interception via cell phone. Arik was asked to empty his pockets, and Constantine did the same. A flickering red bulb came on the moment they entered the room. Louis-Pierre followed them to serve as a witness, writing down the main points of their dialogue.
Arik told Constantine everything Rashid had told him about the plot to assassinate the king. “By the end of the week, I hope to be able to pass on the deciphered content of the material we found in the safe of this commander of the Moroccan espionage station in Marseille.”
The part that was none of the Frenchman’s business was the arrangement the Mossad had reached with Rashid, which included conveying him, along with his French lover, to a safe location. The Mossad had bribed a pathologist who issued a post-mortem report for Rashid’s bodyguards, and included a Confirmation of Burial report stating that based on a dental analysis of the burned corpse, there was no doubt that Rashid had been among those killed in the explosion and the fire.
“Did you use torture to get all this information out of him?” Constantine inquired, curious.
“We didn’t have to. I had no intention of using force to begin with. I always prefer psychological warfare,” Arik replied.
“I agree. Torture doesn’t do any good. A sophisticated interrogee tells you what you want to hear,” the Frenchman declared with confidence that Arik found annoying.
“I wish I could say that torture doesn’t do any good, but it’s not true. When used correctly by professionals applying physical and mental pressure on captured terrorists, it can often provide life-saving information. We only use it in cases of a ticking time bomb.”
Constantine’s expression conveyed his skepticism.
“The question in regard to torture is the cost paid by the security agencies and the interrogators themselves. I believe it’s a high price to pay. Over time, it also hurts our goal, since we’re the ones transforming relatively moderate devout Muslims into extreme fanatics.”
Arik gazed at him. The sixth sense that had served him well throughout the years was signaling to him that under the 2,000-euro suit of this man who looked like a polished European businessman lurked a deceiver, someone who dealt the cards and caused everyone to act in his own best interest. Arik couldn’t evade the feeling that Constantine was manipulating him, and it was a feeling he certainly didn’t like.
“There’s a paradox here,” Constantine added. “You condemn torture, but you Israelis have been killing Arabs throughout your history as a country, with no compunctions.”
Arik shook his head slowly, saying, “Even if killing comes with a price, we have no choice. In the jungle, you have to kill the predator before it kills you. We’re fighting with entities that are not state entities, and the main problem, in my humble opinion, and with all due respect to the Europeans, is that all of you don’t grasp that with a national liberation organization, such as the Basques in Spain, the Tamils in Sri Lanka and even the Palestinians we’re dealing with in the Middle East, you can cope by means of a political compromise. But the terrorism currently in play in Europe is entirely different. This terrorism is based on religious fanaticism that has developed over here, in your cities, under cover of civil rights movements, social security, and excessive liberalism that allowed the radicals to spread their worldview in the mosques, only because it was important to you to provide them with religious freedom.
“What the Muslims say in their mosques is entirely different from what they declare on your media. They talk about quietly conquering Europe from the inside. This time, you’re dealing with a new kind of terrorism that isn’t demanding that the democratic regimes it targets act more nicely. This kind of terrorism stems from your very existence as ‘infidel’ Christians that, as far as they’re concerned, should be exterminated.”
It was obvious that Constantine would not even consider Arik’s analysis. “That’s the narrative that you Israelis tell yourselves. That it’s a war of necessity. How long will this situation in the Middle East continue? When will Josiah’s prophecy come true?” Constantine exposed his background as a devout Catholic, fluent in the scriptures.
Arik smiled bitterly. “There’s a Biblical Zoo in Jerusalem, and next to one of the cages hangs a sign with the verse from the Book of Isaiah in which the prophet foresees a day when the wolf shall dwell with the lamb. All visitors are impressed by the fact that a wolf and a lamb do indeed dwell together in the cage. And when the manager of the zoo is asked, ‘How did you convince the wolf not to devour the lamb?’ he replies, ‘I couldn’t convince the wolf, but I replace the lamb every day.’”
Constantine laughed. For a moment, he seemed friendly.
“Look, Brigadier,” Arik said, “in light of the situation, I don’t feel guilt, but only a deep sense of sadness and despair. Because according to world jihad philosophy, there is no justice. You can’t argue using Western logic with those who slaughter the innocent out of a fervent belief that they’re fulfilling the will of Allah. In contrast to our Western values, they don’t sanctify life, but death. Therefore, you can’t threaten them with death. You simply have to eliminate them before they kill you, and sometimes, you also have to threaten the killer’s family members, who are without a doubt innocent. There’s no other choice.”
Louis-Pierre, who had sat quietly thus far, grasped this and nodded in understanding. He had lived in Morocco for a prolonged period, and realized exactly what Arik meant.
Arik resumed speaking to Constantine. “The Europeans are always condemning us for every action we take in response and in reaction to an act of terrorism. What they don’t understand is that what’s happening in the Middle East is only the opening act for a future show, a horror movie that will soon be screening in every European capital. I noticed that you’re a devout man, Brigadier, sir. In Judaism, we have a verse stating, ‘If someone comes to kill you, rise up and kill him first.’ It’s a moral rule meaning a person may protect himself and save his own life at the cost of the life of the person putting him at risk, as self-defense.”
“But Monsieur Bar-Nathan, with all due respect to you, as a nation calling itself ‘the Chosen People,’ this is a sentiment based on the Old Testament, but the New Testament is a book of peace and brotherhood. We view the situation differently.”
Arik was almost tempted to remind the brigadier of the Algerian Civil War, in which the French slaughtered their opponents in the FLN, the Algerian National Liberation Front, mercilessly and with no restraint. Rage flared within him. The French general’s patronizing attitude and hypocrisy were getting to him. However, he decided to show restraint, shaking the solemn brigadier’s hand and leaving the room.
Constantine enjoyed Arik’s annoyance. He dialed the DGSE’s security officer, blurting, “Come over here with a bug scanner. An Israeli spy was just here, and I don’t trust them not to have left behind a little gift in the form of a concealed surveillance device.”
He turned to Louis-Pierre, telling him firmly, “I don’t trust that Jew. I want you to track him and report to me what the son of a bitch’s intentions are.”
Chapter 53
Th
e Israeli Embassy in Paris
Arik was sitting in the Mossad station in Paris, in the conference room secured with soundproof glass and equipped with direct, encrypted communication devices linking it to Mossad HQ, referred to in Office slang as “the Holy of Holies.”
The Red Line on his desk rang with a high warble. It was a well-encrypted PPP29 line used to automatically relay phone calls to the Mossad Command Center in Tel Aviv; the user was not required to take any additional action other than picking up the receiver.
“Arik, hi,” said Yuli Ebenstein, head of the Technology Division. “We’ve deciphered the material in Rashid’s safe. It includes a variety of propaganda aimed at different target audiences, incendiary material where Royal Guard members are documented in fake photos, seemingly raping a rural Muslim girl in a dark alley in the market. There are staged photos showing police officers beating up a religious official and shaving his beard as he leaves the holiday prayer at the mosque, while onlookers laugh, as well as fatwas and sermons by extreme religious personalities in Moroccan Arabic, meant to inflame and incite the common people against the king’s secular, pro-Western regime. We also found propaganda portraying the current monarchy as corrupt and contrasting it to the paltry social services offered to the population.”
“Are these materials already in use?” Arik asked.
“They are. I checked with the people at Digital Fortress. They’re claiming the material’s already being circulated in all the social networks of the Moroccan diaspora for more than a month now. In response, there’s been a murky wave of calls to kill the king from students seeking a democratization of the country. Devout Muslims have also demanded that the king and his people suffer due to their violation of the values and symbols of Islam. In short, everyone’s very pissed off at his highness right now, especially in light of the insinuation that he’s gay. The interesting part is that whoever created these materials knows that the people were very fond of the previous king, and therefore, is taking great care to protect his honor, and is not attacking the institution of monarchy, but only the current king.”