by Nathan Ronen
“Did you decipher the pornographic films?” Arik asked.
“We sure did. They contained concealed bits that had been added to them, comprised of operative instructions by Abdelhak Kadiri to the cell. Actually, it’s not one cell but at least two.”
“At least two?” Arik asked in disbelief.
“That was our understanding, since they talk about a cell that will set off explosions, and another one coming in from the sea to spray the VIPs and try to abduct hostages for negotiation purposes.”
“Did you run the info through Alex’s analysts in the Intelligence and Research Division?”
“We did, and that’s how they interpreted it, too. We also found an old ‘friend’ of yours in there. Someone who was active in Iraq, killing Americans. Remember Iman al-Uzbeki?”
“Are you serious? How’s he connected to this? He’s from al-Qaeda, and they’re from the Maghreb Islamic Jihad!”
“According to Alex’s people in the Intelligence and Research Division, he’s an al-Qaeda subcontractor who migrated from Afghanistan to Iraq and Syria, and is now active in North Africa.”
“Just like a year ago, we eliminated Imad Husniyah in Syria due to his alleged involvement in training the Shiite militias in Iraq and arming them with explosive charges against the American forces, in collaboration with Iran, I hope we can also handle this ‘friend’ this time.”
Arik was concerned. He had been under the impression that Rashid had told him everything, but was surprised to hear an assessment of at least two cells instructed to act simultaneously. If there were two, could there be more?
“Yuli, I need an accurate mapping of the Grand Mosque in Casablanca. Satellite photos, and if you can send me the construction blueprints, that’s even better. It’s possible that the explosives and the ammunition have been concealed in the mosque itself.”
“We’re working on it. When do you need the material?”
“Yesterday!” Arik replied laconically.
“Okay, for a second there I thought it was really urgent,” Yuli matched his sarcasm. “Actually, why don’t you ask the French for them directly? You’re already there.”
“No, at this stage, I don’t want them to know I’m planning on traveling to Morocco. I know them. They won’t let it happen. Their French ego won’t allow them to let someone else share the glory with them.”
Arik hung up the Red Line and used the secure line to call Joe Amar at the safe house in the French Alps: “I need you to bring in Rashid again for an urgent conversation at our safe house in Paris. That son of a bitch tried to pull one over on me. Also, send the Three Graces to Nice to kidnap his French girlfriend and his son. Tuck them away at the safe house in the Riviera. I need them as a bargaining chip.”
Before setting out, Arik dropped in to see the communication officer at the security unit of the Mossad’s Paris station.
“Take a look at my Chameleon. It’s been a little off lately. The battery dies down too quickly, and it’s been turning itself on and off. Something’s wrong with it.” Arik picked up an alternate operational cellular device and took the station’s vehicle, escorted by a security car, for a light lunch at fast food chain L’Entrecôte, and from there, to the apartment where he was to meet Rashid in a few hours.
* * *
29 Point-to-Point Protocol
Chapter 54
The Town of Sarcelles, North of Paris
The Mossad’s safe house was located in the community of Sarcelles, in the Île-de-France region, seventeen kilometers north of Paris. A diverse area housing North African Jews along with numerous Muslim immigrants from North Africa, it was located near the RER train station, between a park and a shopping mall.
Rashid was already sitting there, relaxed in a new blue suit and a matching tie, waiting for the man who had changed his life. When Arik came in he rose from his seat, smiled ingratiatingly and extended his arms for a friendly hug. Arik pushed him back in anger, slapping his face hard. Rashid’s nose started to bleed.
“What’s wrong with you? I don’t get it!” Rashid yelled, holding his nose. He felt deeply shocked. Up until now, there had been no violent encounters between them.
“You get it just fine. But this time, we’ll talk in a completely different language,” Arik said gruffly, slapping him again.
He signaled his men to grasp Rashid in a chokehold. They pulled his head back roughly, cuffing him. Rashid yelled out in fear.
“As my friends can testify, I’m usually a polite person. My enemies, on the other hand, will tell you a whole other story.” He grabbed Rashid’s hair in his fist, his grip powerful, whispering in his ear: “Are you my friend, Rashid, or my enemy?”
“I’m your friend… I mean, you’re my friend!” Rashid mumbled in terror.
“Sorry. My queue for friend requests is closed. I’m at full capacity,” Arik smiled sarcastically, still holding onto Rashid’s hair.
“You want to explain to me why you didn’t tell me about the cells you sent to Morocco?” Arik yelled at him.
“I told you what I knew… Everything…” He examined Arik’s reaction; Arik didn’t bat an eyelash. “Maybe not everything… I was confused… I wasn’t feeling well… But it’s your fault… You injected me with that stuff… I don’t remember anything…”
Arik was furious. “The minute you’re done with the bullshit and want to talk, let me know!”
Rashid was eager to please, willing to say anything in order to escape the terror that had taken control of his body. Up till now, these people had not beaten him at all.
“Rashid, do you know the saying, ‘You can fool some of the people all of the time or all of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time?’”
“No, I haven’t heard that one,” Rashid played innocent.
“We analyzed the material in your safe. We heard about all the cells. Not one cell, like you told me. You want to give me the full, real version, or else I’ll also have to kill your son, whom, by the way, we’re currently holding.”
Rashid gazed at him in disbelief. As far as he knew, his son was currently in nursery school in Nice, in the South of France.”
“You want to say hi to him?” Arik said, handing him a cell phone.
Rashid heard his child over the speaker: “Hello, Papa?” and his heart melted.
He already knew he was being held by the Israelis. He knew they could be very evil and cruel. In fact, that was what he had learned about the Jews during the era of the French regime, when he went to school in the early fifties. This time, he was much more frightened than he had been in the Mossad’s secret hideaway in the Alps. He knew he had taken things one step too far, and this time, had been caught up in his web of lies. He knew the Jews would kill him the way they had threatened to do, without a moment’s hesitation. He also knew they belonged to an ancient people with a long memory, who always took revenge on their enemies, even after two thousand years, as they had sworn to do with the Amalekites.
“Leave my wife and my son alone,” he called out in agitation. “I’m willing to go to Casablanca with you and show you exactly where we hid the weapons. But believe me, I don’t have the full details of the execution stage. General Kadiri took care of that himself.”
“Okay. Tell me again what you do know—how many cells, and when they’ll be attacking. And this time, give me the full version.”
“I’m not sure…” Rashid stammered, evoking Arik’s wrath once more. He produced his Glock 21 pistol and waved it in the direction of Rashid’s knees.
“What do you think about me sticking a hollow-point bullet in your spine and one more in each kneecap, and for dessert, I’ll shoot one up your rectum,” Arik said with an evil smile. “You’ll spend your life in a wheelchair, impotent and swaddled in a diaper till the end of your life.”
Rashid re
cognized that look, and believed him.
“Okay. As far as I know, there’ll be one cell in army uniforms that will blend in with the Royal Guard. They’re supposed to trigger an explosion in the mosque’s main minaret and cause it to collapse into the big courtyard, where about 80,000 worshippers are supposed to be congregating. The moment the massive scramble for the exits starts, the cell starts firing at the congregation from the galleries, tossing grenades to make people change the direction in which they’re fleeing and burst into the closed hall where the main ceremony will be taking place, and where all the VIPs from the Arab world will be assembled, including the king.
“When the chaos begins, and ambulances and emergency response vehicles are called in, another cell is supposed to go into action, attacking the rescue personnel by setting off an IED and a car bomb we’ve prepared in advance outside the main site. The result will be that none of the heads of state and presidents will dare step outside the enclosed area of the mosque where the king will be giving his speech in honor of the inauguration of the mosque. The VIPs’ bodyguards will huddle around them, keeping them inside the enclosed area, which is seemingly safer than the outside, where a lethal terrorist cell is roaming.
“And here comes the cherry on top, Kadiri’s true genius. That’s when a third cell is supposed to land, a team of frogmen from the sea, using rubber speedboats. When that cell arrives, it’ll begin a massive shooting spree and infiltrate the closed mosque. Once it’s inside, it’ll ensure the king and his people are killed, and maybe also abduct VIPs for negotiation purposes, fleeing with the hostages by sea to south Morocco, in the direction of the Polisario,” Rashid concluded.
“Something like that requires central command and control. Who’ll be the commander? Kadiri himself will be next to the king, along with Prince Mohammed Fouad Al Mansouri, the minister of the interior. How will they make sure they themselves aren’t hurt in the chaos of the shooting?” Arik asked.
“I think it’ll be Iman al-Uzbeki,” Rashid mumbled the explicit name, his voice low.
“Who’s Iman al-Uzbeki?” Arik asked, and saw Rashid’s pupils contracting, although his expression did not change.
“I don’t exactly know. He came to visit me once in Marseille to get money.”
“Do you have a photo of him?” Arik asked.
“I had photos of him in the security cameras of the internet café you burned down in Marseille.”
Arik left for an adjacent room to prevent Rashid from overhearing him.
Once again, he called Yuli Ebenstein, head of the Mossad’s Technology Division. “Do you have the footage from the security cameras that Daniel Poselanitz and his people collected at the Moroccan intelligence station in Marseille?”
“Of course. We made an album out of it, and scanned it for the ‘Best Friends’ database at ‘the Pool30.’”
“Check whether you have a positive ID for Iman al-Uzbeki, and send me the photo. Cross-reference it with material we’ve received from the Americans, the British and the French,” Arik instructed.
A minute later, the Chameleon buzzed quietly. Arik looked at the photograph of a man in his early forties, gaunt and wearing a Pashtun-style fez. He knew the man. His trademark was his coppery-red beard. Iman al-Uzbeki was not his real name, but rather his underground nickname.
Arik swiped at the screen and discovered that Al-Uzbeki began his training in Uzbekistan’s Muslim movement, funded by the Taliban. He then moved to Pakistan and joined al-Qaeda, training there under Bin Laden’s command. He called Alex Haimovitz at the Office.
“Alex, what the hell is Iman al-Uzbeki doing here?”
“I’m as surprised as you are. According to information we got from the Turks, he fled Turkey about a week ago, after a raid by Turkey Police that led to the arrest of about fifty suspects of Tajik and Uzbek origin. Some of them had been training children in the basements of buildings throughout Istanbul. Several raids exposed eighteen such apartments, which the detainees allegedly turned into training camps for the organization. The children were taught the principles and laws of the terrorist organization, as well as the routines of life in a future Islamic state.”
“Pass on this information to the French through the usual channels. Tell them this man is walking around free on their turf, and that there’s a chance he’s currently heading al-Qaeda in North Africa. In addition, tell Avi Oron, head of Tevel Division, to immediately call the NSA and CIA and let them know that their lovely friend is supposed to be in Casablanca next week. If we can shoot him down, maybe we can finally eliminate him.”
Arik returned to the room, presenting Rashid with the photo. “You’ve seen this man at your place, right?”
“Bihyat Allah, I swear to God, only once. He came to pick up a suitcase of money and left. I don’t know any more than that. I only know that he talked to Kadiri in my presence.”
“And what did he say?” Arik said, unrelenting.
“I don’t remember. I only remember that they were talking about their people running dress rehearsals while pretending to train security forces, on site at the mosque itself.”
“Dress rehearsals? And no one suspected anything?” Arik asked in disbelief.
“Look, we’re Moroccans. We don’t ask too many questions. If the authorities say that this is the way it should be, we obey. If Kadiri says we need a dress rehearsal for a security drill, who’s going to ask him why? Prince Mansouri? The police commissioner who’s subordinate to the minister of the interior?”
“When is the temple inauguration?” Arik asked.
“If I’m not mistaken, it’s a week from today,” Rashid replied.
“Are the cells acting autonomously, or do they need to receive an activation command?” Arik asked.
“They need a green light from me. I mean, that was the plan, until you made me disappear,” Rashid complained.
“Don’t move! I’ll be right back,” Arik commanded, resolving to punish Rashid once they returned from Morocco.
Suddenly, he remembered something, and signaled Joe Amar to leave the room with him: “I need Rashid to obtain all infrastructure plans for the mosque, including sewage tunnels, central air conditioning vents, electricity and water systems, in short, everything. Don’t return him to the mountain safe house before you have all that.”
“What do I do with the Frenchwoman and the kid?” Joe asked.
“Let them go. They’re French citizens. Give her the impression that she’d been abducted by Rashid’s Moroccan friends, who are looking for him because of a monetary debt. She doesn’t know a thing about what happened in Marseille. But don’t tell him; let him keep stressing about the fact that we have them, and don’t give him access to a phone or computer unless you’re supervising.”
Arik tried to call Admiral Lacoste, but it turned out he was on a tour of French territories abroad, in the Pacific Ocean region, along with the president of the republic. The admiral’s office manager informed him that Admiral Lacoste could not be disturbed, and instructed Arik to talk to Brigadier Eddy Constantine, head of the DGSE’s Operations Administration. Arik found out that the admiral would only be returning in three days.
Arik called Louis-Pierre. “We need to meet urgently,” he said impatiently. “Tell Brigadier Constantine I’m on my way to see you.”
“I’m sorry, Arik, he doesn’t like you, or you Israelis’ work methods. He actually asked me to tell you last time that as far as he’s concerned, meetings with him should be set up in an orderly manner, through your Mossad extension in Paris opposite our Foreign Relations Department at the DGSE.”
“Tell him I don’t have the patience for his bureaucratic procedures, and that I’m on my way to see you. The major event we were talking about with Lacoste has been moved up, and I have all the details. It looks like the attack force will be commanded by someone we’ve all been seeking for a long time. We don’t have
time for ego games. If he’s unwilling to talk to me, he’ll bear full responsibility.”
* * *
30 A nickname for a classified Mossad database, which only those with proper classification may view.
Chapter 55
DGSE Headquarters in Paris
“Mon general, the man from Israel, Mr. Bar-Nathan, is here outside. He claims it’s very urgent,” Brigadier Constantine heard his administrative assistant over the intercom.
Eddy Constantine decided to educate the impudent man from the small Middle Eastern country, giving him a private lesson on French manners and proper conduct.
“Let Mr. Bar-Nathan know that I’m busy dealing with my planned agenda, and that I’ll try to fit him in as soon as my schedule clears,” he announced in his most formal voice over the intercom, knowing that Arik Bar-Nathan could hear him.
Louis-Pierre entered the bureau and left it again looking utterly abashed. He returned occasionally with an espresso or a small sandwich for Arik that he smuggled out from one of the meetings in a napkin. Both of them knew that the brigadier was flexing his leadership muscles by abusing Arik.
Arik soothed Louis-Pierre. “It’s okay. Do you know that the Mossad’s motto is ‘Where there is no guidance, a nation falls, but in an abundance of counselors there is safety’?” he whispered in his ear. “It’s from the Book of Wisdom. You call it ‘le livre des Proverbes,’ and we call it the Book of Proverbs.”
Louis-Pierre did not seem to be in the mood for a lesson on the contents of the Old Testament. He was trapped between his loyalty to his place of his employment and his blowhard boss, who was playing ego-based games.
After some time, the administrative assistant emerged and invited Arik into Constantine’s office.
“Why is everything so urgent to you Israelis?” the brigadier muttered with no words of greeting or intention of apologizing for the delay.