by Nathan Ronen
“Chutzpah or impudence is an Israeli national trait, just as elegance is for the French,” Arik retorted.
Constantine scanned Arik’s eyes, attempting to discern whether this was an intentional dig at his expense. He assumed a fake smile, as if it had been a compliment.
Arik understood that for a professional spy, no feeling was more humiliating than being informed by a member of a foreign agency of something you should have known yourself. He tried to be empathetic and considerate.
“You’re right, of course, Brigadier Constantine. It is best to follow protocol. But when we met at the end of last week, I told you we needed to decipher the material we found in the safe belonging to the man who managed the Moroccan intelligence station in Marseille, and I suddenly discovered we’re sitting on a powder keg, with the detonating fuse already lit.”
“Do you mean to say you extracted information from that guy who supposedly died in the mysterious gas canister explosion in Marseille?” Constantine asked, signaling that he, too, was well versed in the material.
“Brigadier, sir, I had no intention of conning you. The autopsy following his supposed death issued by the French pathologist was conveyed to the Moroccan authorities and to the victim’s family. You knew very well that we had him in the safe house during the explosion.”
Eddy Constantine confirmed this with a nod.
“And what’s new since then? What’s this story of a powder keg with a lit detonation fuse? I’m still waiting for my plan to be confirmed by the minister of defense, as an alternative to the plan submitted by Admiral Lacoste, who left for a tour abroad along with the president.”
Arik perceived Louis-Pierre bowing his head and staring at the ground in embarrassment. At that moment, he realized that Eddy Constantine had proposed a plan different than the one Arik had suggested to the admiral at his home. Arik had believed that the admiral’s plan had already been approved by the French policymakers, but now he was no longer certain.
“Brigadier Constantine, you’re head of the Operations Administration. I’m just presenting you with the unfortunate fact that everything that’s been planned is no longer relevant. The attack and the assassination attempt against the king will take place a week from today!”
If Brigadier Constantine was impressed, he certainly managed to hide this fact.
“As far as we know, there are three cells whose people are already onsite. I believe they’ve performed a dry run on an accurate model, and the weapons and munitions include submachine guns, RPG launchers, hand grenades, IEDs and suicide vests. All of them are already stashed inside the mosque. Zero hour is approaching. In my humble opinion, brigadier, our prep time is very short.”
Brigadier Constantine furrowed his gray brows and shot Arik a chilling gaze: “You Israelis think you run the entire world. I heard about your plan when I was at Admiral Lacoste’s house. I think it’s overblown and amateurish. We French have ways of our own. We’ll do it at the time and in the form we see fit. I’m not sure I can use information extracted from a Moroccan traitor by torture. I don’t know how reliable it is,” he gritted out quietly.
“But I offered you the chance to take part in the interrogation…” Arik called out, beginning to lose his equilibrium.
“Who did you make this offer to?” Constantine shouted, looking at Louis-Pierre, who maintained a bored expression. “I’m glad we didn’t fall into your trap. You wanted to legitimize your criminal activities on French soil. I assume he’s outside our territory now, right? Thank you very much for the information, and excuse me, we’re busy here…”
Arik persisted, passionate: “We have to carry out the plan I suggested to Admiral Lacoste at his home, a plan that I thought had been approved by the French president, and is supposed to preempt and neutralize the conspirators so that the inauguration of the Grand Mosque will take place with an actor impersonating the king, while the king is safely ensconced in his villa in Nice, and…”
“Monsieur Bar-Nathan, who approved and what has been approved is outside your jurisdiction. And now, thank you very much. Let us do our work our way and at our pace. We French don’t need your help, or that of your Mossad.”
Arik tried to be conciliatory: “We have information that’s currently being conveyed to you via the official channels, in accordance with your protocol. We found out that the attack will be headed by an arch-terrorist named Iman al-Uzbeki. He’s a senior, professional al-Qaeda operative that the Americans have been seeking for a few years now, because he killed quite a few of their soldiers, blowing up a command post in Afghanistan. It looks like he’ll be commanding the force in Morocco.”
“When we receive the material, we’ll look into its reliability and act accordingly. Thank you,” Constantine said, his voice chilly.
Arik couldn’t take it anymore. He rose from his seat, yelling at Constantine: “The Islamic Jihad is a part of the al-Qaeda organization and its extensions. The name ‘al-Qaeda’ means ‘the foundation,’ and its secondary title is ‘The World Islamic Front for Jihad Against Jews and Crusaders.’ This isn’t just a Jewish problem. It’s your problem, too! Their goal is to enforce their extreme Islamic worldview on all religions, including moderate Islam, while toppling all Islamic and Western regimes currently in control…”
Constantine, too, lost control, slamming his fist on the table: “The nerve of you! You come in here to lecture me on extreme Islam? Me? What do you even know about me? I come from a family murdered by the Algerian FLN. I’m a real Pied-Noir31. I was born in the Oran Province in Algeria. Don’t patronize me, and now get the hell out of here!”
Arik kept his silence and stayed where he was. He knew that a personal blowup would not prove helpful in attaining his goal. He did what his mother had taught him to do in his youth: he inserted his hand into the pocket of his pants and pinched his thigh hard, commanding himself to cool down and regain control of his nerves. He tried to smile outwardly while taking slow, deep breaths, attempting not to externalize his emotional turmoil.
“Sir, I apologize for losing my temper…” Arik attempted in a conciliatory voice.
“We don’t want any Israeli involvement. This isn’t your territory; it’s not your turf. Now go back to the Middle Eastern dump you came from, and stay in your burrow over there,” Eddy Constantine told him maliciously, pointing at the door.
* * *
31 Pied-Noir literally means “black feet,” and is a nickname for the French settlers in Algeria.
Chapter 56
The Mossad Station in Paris
Arik was in a bleak mood. He was angry at himself for losing control and for causing a commotion. The communication officer was waiting for him at the entrance to the building, holding his Chameleon device.
“Someone infected your cell phone with a lethal and very sophisticated worm. Was your phone with you all the time?”
Arik remembered leaving his phone outside the ‘clean room’ when he was talking to Eddy Constantine. Had Louis-Pierre instructed someone to tamper with his phone so they could track Arik’s movements and locate the Mossad’s safe house in France? Or had it been another one of Brigadier Constantine’s people?
If they had expected to listen in on his conversations through the phone, apparently, they were underestimating Mossad technology and the scrambling and encryption procedures all Chameleons undergo automatically on a daily basis. Any attempt to hack them would immediately trigger an alarm that would cause all information stored on the Chameleon to be deleted.
He was disappointed. His harsh conversation with Brigadier Constantine as well as the French breach of good faith enraged him. This was not accepted conduct among allies. It was a violation of sorts of the ethical code prevailing between spies who were on the same side.
Arik turned to the station’s communication officer, instructing him: “Cancel this phone. Delete all the special apps that the Technic
al Division installed on it, as well as my calendar and the entire list of contacts. In short, take it out of the Mossad arsenal and turn it into a regular phone. Now take its SIM card, which has been tampered with by the French, install it on some used laptop you buy on the street and send one of your people to surf at an internet café in the Latin Quarter, so they can infect the computers there with the French worm embedded in this SIM card. That’ll give the French something to monitor.”
He sat down at his desk, picking up the red phone linked directly to Mossad Command Center in Tel Aviv.
“Command Center, hello. This is Captain Yahel, how can I help?” he heard the pleasant voice of the officer on duty.
“Please connect me urgently to Mossad Director Avigdor Galili,” he instructed impatiently.
“Sir, we have a problem…” Arik began his review, detailing all the dilemmas and possible modes of operation, while emphasizing that if Arik’s operational plan, confirmed by Admiral Lacoste, was not executed in its entirety, things would veer out of control. Arik was afraid that if the king was murdered, Constantine might blame the Israeli Mossad; out of the frying pan and into the fire.
“Once again, you’ve gotten us in trouble!” Galili declared sourly. “What kind of political and operational mess have you stirred up here? I need to consult the prime minister. I want you here. I’ll ask to convene an urgent meeting of the Security Cabinet in the Prime Minister’s Office. Don’t wait for an El-Al flight. We don’t have time. I’ll arrange a private jet that will have you here in four hours. Go straight from the airport to the Prime Minister’s Office in Jerusalem. A military helicopter will be waiting for you in Ben Gurion Airport,” he concluded, hanging up.
The Security Cabinet? That Galili is going a bit overboard, Arik thought. Maybe he’s already covering his ass?
Arik hung up the Red Line. After a few minutes of consideration, he called the Command Center in Tel Aviv once more. This time, he asked to speak to Jacky Maman, the head of Neviot, the Mossad’s surveillance division.
“Yes, Arik my friend,” he heard Jacky’s friendly baritone.
“Jack, I need some urgent, delicate work from you.”
“Here in Israel or abroad?” Jacky asked, businesslike.
“Here, in the Paris area.”
“Friend or foe?” Jacky continued.
“It’s a bit hard to say. Let’s say it’s a friend who isn’t behaving the way you’d expect a colleague to behave. And I have some suspicions that he’s working for the enemy.”
“Okay, leave written instructions with the Paris station’s security officer. I’m sending a work crew. Do you want Archangel Gabriel32-type information, or preparations for a ‘driver’s license’?33”
“Both,” Arik said, and sat down to write an authorization for operational action as well as instructions for the technical crew that would be arriving in Paris within several hours.
* * *
32 “Archangel Gabriel”: code word for hacking the cellular devices of a surveillance target.
33 “Driver’s license”: code word for taking over a modern vehicle in order to make an assassination look like a traffic accident caused by a mechanical malfunction, when circumstances require it.
Chapter 57
The Prime Minister’s Office, Jerusalem
An hour before the Security Cabinet was convened in the Prime Minister’s Office, Galili went in for an irregular work meeting with his boss, the prime minister.
“Galili, what’s so urgent that you demanded an immediate meeting of the Security Cabinet?” Ehud Tzur asked with unconcealed anger. “You know I’m busy with election matters right now. What happened? Did war break out?”
Izzo Galili maintained his self-control. “I’m having an issue with the cowboy you appointed as my deputy.”
“Arik Bar-Nathan?” Tzur was baffled. “Well, then, what does that have to do with the Security Cabinet?”
“He’s caused complications for us with the French, and also incurred some field security offenses as well as violating an explicit order from me.”
“I know he’s a rebellious type, but he’s a guy who can see angles and opportunities where other people just see danger or a problem not worth solving. That’s his major advantage,” Ehud Tzur said.
“Really?” Galili mocked. “I thought he screwed things up for you on the whole Apollonia weapon ship issue.”
Tzur assumed an expression of dissatisfaction. “On the other hand, you know that a career without scandal isn’t a proper career,” he said with a smile. “I assume you also have a few skeletons in your closet—or, more accurately, some female soldiers.”
If Tzur’s intention was to hint to Galili that he should employ some perspective when viewing the events, it failed miserably. Galili knew that the employees of the Office had respect for Arik Bar-Nathan, who had arrived as a fighter from the naval commando and climbed up the ranks of the Mossad thanks to hard work and operational accomplishments. He suspected that Tzur and Bar-Nathan shared channels of communication that were unknown to him, but wanted to establish his control over the Mossad and shape it in accordance with his will.
“I can handle Bar-Nathan.” Galili gazed directly at the prime minister, expectant. “It won’t be easy, but I can do it. I need your support, though. He’s not exactly the sort of sociable fish who swims with the current.”
“Fish that swim with the current are usually dead fish. Arik Bar-Nathan is a white shark. He’s the type that bites when you try to control him. I know you’re afraid that one of his operations will blow up in our face and cause us a lot of embarrassment, but on the other hand, the man has brought us unprecedented accomplishments just because he thinks outside the box. Let’s not forget that, either.”
Galili realized he had lost this round. He understood that Bar-Nathan had the support of powerful policymakers who were willing to pull strings for him. However, it was important to him to begin creating a problematic image for the man who had defied his explicit order, in addition to embarrassing him through his wife. Galili knew that next time, he would probably be granted more freedom to take action. He was simply digging gradually, extracting another small stone from the wall protecting Bar-Nathan. He had the patience needed for the task.
Prime Minister Ehud Tzur rose from his seat and walked over to the small bar at the corner of his private office. He took out two tumblers from a glass cabinet, filled an aluminum bucket with ice cubes, and produced a bottle filled with amber-hued liquid.
“Wow,” Galili said, impressed. “You have Macallan Golden Age Super Premium whisky?”
“Yes. I only offer it to connoisseurs,” Ehud Tzur smiled self-indulgently, pouring half a glass for each of them. “Ice?”
“No, I want it straight.”
The two friends retired to the private lounge located deep inside the bureau, sat down in armchairs and propped their feet up on a table made of thick crystal glass.
“Want to light up?” Tzur asked.
“You’ve got a joint here?” Galili was surprised.
Tzur didn’t even bother answering. He walked over to the cigar cabinet and pulled out two aluminum cylinders bearing the words “Cohibe Behike 56,” offering one of them to Galili.
The appropriate tools were produced, the tips were cut off, and the cigars were lit, sending spirals of purplish smoke into the space of the room.
“So tell me, have you already prepared the material our mutual friend requested, about the king of Jordan’s and the Saudi royal family’s stance on the option of establishing a casino and a duty-free zone near the border with Aqaba?”
“Not yet. You have to tread gently with these suspicious types at the Mossad. Everything raises questions. It also won’t be simple to oppose all these environmental organizations about building it in the middle of a wildlife preserve. They see coral and migratory bird
patterns as more important than providing livelihood for thousands of people and developing the city.”
“Leave that part to me. I’ve already agreed with the minister of environmental protection that he’ll initiate a campaign simulating a ‘green’ agenda, claiming the fish hatcheries belonging to the kibbutzim should be relocated from the northern coast of Eilat, since they’re bad for the coral beach nature reserve. And the minister of the interior will help us lock down changing the Municipal Design Plan designation of that land in the Aravah Desert on the border in order to deal with the mayor, using the excuse of adding more jobs to a financially floundering city,” Tzur noted.
“Tell your friend the casino owner to be patient. It’s a work in progress. We’re collecting material and getting ready to frame the pertinent people. It’ll all turn out just fine,” Galili said.
“Okay. Tell your people to get going dealing with the king of Jordan. Our friend is driving me crazy. You’d think his casinos and whorehouses in China and Las Vegas don’t provide him enough money to make a living. I’d blow him off if I didn’t need him to finance my campaign expenses. And he’s always providing my wife with little gifts that she likes.”
Ehud Tzur sucked with pleasure on the fine Cuban cigar, while Galili leaned back with a glass of the most expensive whisky in the world.
“Did he give you that, too?” Galili pointed at the whisky. Tzur nodded with a mysterious smile.
“I’d like a bottle, too,” Galili expressed his wish. Tzur smiled in understanding.
“Galili, my friend, about Bar-Nathan, I want to tell you that with Mossad fighters, we’re not exactly looking for social creatures. I have enough of those at the Ministry of Social Affairs. We actually need people who are willing to break the rules… to do things that an average, regular, mentally stable person would never even consider doing.”