by Nathan Ronen
Galili nodded in comprehension. “And you’re employing me as Mossad director to supervise and make sure things don’t veer out of control. To ensure that these guys don’t cross any red lines. And I’m afraid Arik Bar-Nathan is one of the slightly unpredictable ones.”
“Where’s Bar-Nathan now?” Tzur asked.
“On his way here, on a chartered plane.”
“Cooperate with him. Make him work by the rules, but don’t throw the book at him for every tiny disciplinary problem. That won’t work with him. On the other hand, watch out for him. He knows a lot, including where all the bodies are buried.”
A new suspicion crossed Galili’s mind. Was the prime minister implying that Bar-Nathan knew of secrets that allowed him to blackmail politicians, granting him immunity? It was true that he and Tzur were friends when it came to business and socializing, but Galili didn’t really trust Tzur. He knew that at the first crisis—should it occur—Ehud Tzur would sacrifice him to save his own skin.
He remembered a report he had read shortly after starting his new role. It was a survey by the head of the Psychology Division, Ruthie Ben Ephraim, about Kidon fighters who spent lots of time on the field: when you trained a field operative, someone whose main role was carrying out hits, you instructed him to become judge, jury and executioner, all on his own. It should not be surprising if, at some point, he was having a hard time making the distinction between a terrorist worthy of elimination and a corrupt politician looking out for number one.
Galili sat motionless for a minute, calculating the various possibilities in his mind. Any way he looked at it, he didn’t like what he was sensing. Suddenly, he grinned expansively. He had come up with an idea. He decided to start compiling a thick file on Arik Bar-Nathan, a file that would include all his past offenses, all his minor violations of proper procedure in the past, as well as the ones he was likely to commit in the future. That was the only way he could be caught.
Chapter 58
The Apartment on Avenue Montaigne, Paris
A humid summer night, four a.m., about three hours to sunrise. A moonless night. Not far from Élysée Palace, on the roof of a corner building, a black-clad figure leaned down, wrapped a gray nylon rope of the kind used by climbers around an iron ventilation chimney, and glided silently toward a well-designed balcony on the fourth floor. The city spread out below was currently at a low point in its activity, not quite the vibrant City of Lights. In this quiet phase, the slow pulse of the city was nearly audible. The lively traffic characterizing the city’s wide boulevards had slowed down to a trickle.
A security company van turning in from one of the alleys stopped, making the gliding figure freeze in mid-air, suspended and clinging to the building’s gutter. Two armed guards disembarked from the vehicle and checked the locks of the prestigious Gucci store, located at street level. The van resumed driving to its next destination.
This was the hour favored by Kidon agents, who called it “the witching hour”: the time between darkness and dawn. A time when the great majority of humankind was immersed in the deepest sleep.
With fingers clad in a black Nomex glove, the figure lowered a lens toward its right eye, activating a night-vision device that scanned the interior of the house through the double-paned glass, finally letting out a sigh of relief. Thanks to the homeowners’ negligence, the internal alarm mechanism, which included a motion detector, had not been activated.
A slight prodding of two thin metal fret-saws at the lock of the large glass window caused it to open. The black-clad form snuck inside in absolute silence. The apartment was furnished with classical European opulence, including a dark parquet floor and thick Afghan carpets. The intruder’s silicone shoes made no sound on the floor. The tight nylon outfit, also made of fireproof Nomex polymer fabric, left no doubt that the curves belonged to a woman. The black ski mask hiding her face and her light brown hair exposed only a pair of large green eyes, scanning the large apartment through a night-vision scope.
“Onion,” she whispered in Hebrew into the small mouthpiece taped to her cheek, using the code word meaning “I’m in.”
“Open the front door for us,” whispered Lia, commander of the Three Graces team, from the van parked at the corner of the block, bearing a sign stating “Fromagerie Charlotte.”
“Hold on a second, I have to take care of the tenants first,” Alma whispered.
She approached the first bedroom, which was empty. In the second bedroom she found a scrawny, scarred man and an overweight woman, her thinning graying hair held up in plastic rollers covered with a hairnet; the two slept in separate twin beds. The woman was emitting rhythmic snores, and a sleeping orange cat was curled up on her comforter. The cat awoke, curious, opened her eyes, and quickly snuggled between the thighs of her lush owner.
There was a bulge under the man’s pillow, with the barrel of a gun protruding out. The black-clad figure approached the man, effortlessly extracting the loaded gun and placing it in a pocket in her vest. From another pocket of the tight vest, she produced a small aluminum bottle containing a spray developed by the Israel Institute for Biological Research in Ness Ziona. She slipped on a rubber gas mask that covered her eyes and face and, in complete silence, sprayed the two sleepers with a nitrous oxide anesthetic soon absorbed by their lungs. They would awaken tomorrow with a light headache and would not remember a thing.
“The front door’s open, come on up,” she whispered.
Two figures wearing technician uniforms and holding bags of technical equipment emerged from the elevator and entered the apartment. “Take care of the TV,” Lia, the team commander, ordered.
Ella produced a computer chip from her pocket and plugged it into one of the sockets behind the TV set. She grasped a device resembling a tiny laptop and tuned the microchip to the frequency of the TV set’s transmission. At that moment, the TV set became a sophisticated surveillance device, transmitting anything said in the house’s living room to the Mossad’s Paris HQ, even when the television set was off.
All cellular devices in the house were connected to specialized hacking software developed in Israel in order to reprogram them and implant tiny concealed microphones. The devices’ camera was specially programmed so it could be infiltrated from the outside and activated without the owners’ knowledge, even saving the events of the day on a special disc. Additional micro-cameras, the size of a pinhead, were concealed in the eyepiece of the air conditioner and upon the large crystal chandelier in the living room.
The intruders worked in complete silence and with the efficiency of an experienced, skilled crew. A tiny two-millimeter hole drilled discreetly behind the curtains served to conceal a powerful nano-transmitter, intended to disrupt the activity of any scanner seeking surveillance devices within the room. The device was camouflaged with paste from a small tube in a color matching the wall, so that it could not be detected with the naked eye.
“I’m going down to the parking garage to take care of the car,” Alma said, scooping up the keys of a Citroën C-6 state car. The car’s hood was raised, and a laptop connected to the car’s internal computer. Within several minutes, the two computers were synchronized, and the vehicle’s computer was infected with a lethal virus that would allow a tracking team to assassinate the driver through a staged accident, should the need arise.
Tiny microphones were planted within the driver’s headrest. This was the latest equipment from the Russian intelligence agency’s operational logistic support, used solely by SVR’s34 field operatives. This was another ‘false flag’ operation by the Kidon team. If the car was searched during a routine inspection by the DGSE’s security officer, the electronic fingerprints would lead them to the agents of the notorious Russian SVR.
Less than an hour after infiltrating the home of Eddy Constantine, head of the DGSE’s Operations Division, the team vanished just as suddenly as it had appeared. The gun was returned to it
s previous position, the window through which they had entered was closed from the inside, and the door was quietly slammed shut.
* * *
34 The Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Federation, or SVR RF, is Russia’s external intelligence and counterintelligence agency, established after the dismantling of the KGB in 1991. It is similar in function to the Israeli Mossad.
Chapter 59
The Ministerial Committee on National Security Affairs
Arik arrived at the Prime Minister’s Office feeling physically and emotionally drained. Galili’s words, “Once again, you’ve gotten us in trouble,” were echoing in his head during the flight. The two men were so different in their approach to life. Galili came from an aristocratic family, had lived in an affluent neighborhood north of Tel Aviv, was an only child, a handsome athlete, a pilot who, from an early age, had felt himself superior to those around him, with connections to the right people. In contrast, Arik came from humble stock, Holocaust survivors who had infused all of their fears, traumas, expectations and wishes into their children. Throughout his life, he had had to combat their legacy, empower himself and earn his spot by working hard and excelling.
This odd feeling led to a nagging thought: Who am I working for? Perhaps Eva was right in her insistence that the time had come to retire with dignity and leave the Mossad to the young folks.
At the entrance to the Security Cabinet’s conference room, it was actually Prime Minister Ehud Tzur who greeted him with a warm expression and a vigorous clap on the back. “How are you, Arik? Galili told me about your little adventure in Morocco. Did you know my wife, Monique, was also born in Meknes, Morocco?”
Mossad Director Avigdor Galili was more understated, politely shaking his deputy’s hand. Galili had brought Dr. Haimovitz, head of the Intelligence and Research Division, to the meeting with him, and the prime minister had requested that Major General Shachar Knafo, head of the Directorate of Military Intelligence, attend as advisor to the policymakers. All of the cabinet members were already in attendance, waiting for the meeting to begin.
“Galili, update us on why the Mossad asked for an urgent convening of the Security Cabinet,” the prime minister asked the director of the Mossad.
“I’m asking Arik Bar-Nathan, who was acting opposite the French in a severe security incident, to present you with the dilemmas concerning our involvement in Morocco,” Galili said, giving the floor to his deputy.
“About six months ago, while following the routing of funding for terrorist organizations, we randomly uncovered a plot to assassinate the king of Morocco,” Arik began. “The head of the Mossad sent me to consult the French, and I reached an understanding with them that we must save the king in order to prevent a domino effect. Meaning that if Morocco falls to the forces of radical Islam, the entire line of countries from the northern edge of North Africa will topple in its wake: Algeria, Tunisia, Libya and Egypt, perhaps Jordan as well, possibly followed by Saudi Arabia. Today there’s already unrest and disturbances caused by Muslim guerilla groups in the Sahel region, at the south edge of the Sahara.” Arik leaned forward. “The point that this forum needs to decide on is the means for or the necessity of our involvement in Morocco. Initially, it might appear distant and uncalled for, but if we don’t stop al-Qaeda and the Islamic Jihad there, they might conclude that the time has come to start conquering the rest of the infidel world, and us along with it, and they’d have enough volunteer soldiers to recruit for the task.”
“The position of IDF’s Directorate of Military Intelligence—and I want to remind my colleagues from the Mossad that we, rather than they, are the ones in charge of providing a national security assessment—is quite the opposite,” said the head of the Military Intelligence Directorate. “I don’t think we should stretch our limited capabilities, and recommend that we focus on enemy countries that pose a threat to us. Even Iran, once an ally and today a bitter enemy, strains the limits of our operational capabilities. Why do we need to go all the way to Morocco? That’s France’s problem.”
Sarit Rimon, minister of foreign affairs, entered the fray: “I’m wary of Israeli involvement that will cause condemnation or an escalation in our already tense relations with the countries of the European Union.”
Arik couldn’t hold back, retorting angrily: “Don’t put too much faith in the Europeans. Our European friends loathe us, because we’re everything they’re not. They believe in only three things: a thirty-five-hour work week, global warming and a six-week annual vacation in a warm place on the beach, sipping a cool alcoholic beverage.”
“With all due respect, I don’t think the Europeans can be defined in such a reductive way,” the minister of foreign affairs scolded him. “The French, the British, the Germans and the Spanish—each of them has experienced terrorism on their own soil. And all of them are motivated to maintain European unity and the status quo. Therefore, we have to act together, in coordination with them.”
It was actually Mossad Director Izzo Galili who surprised Arik by taking his side. However, he recommended that the Mossad be present using a disguise of some sort, and step into action only as a backup and only if the king’s life was in danger.
Ehud Tzur, accustomed to being an underdog within the Israeli political and defense system, which always made sure to remind him he had been a non-combatant military journalist during his mandatory service in the army, was now prime minister and head of the entire system; these same people were now dependent upon his power and his authorization. He liked the feeling of control and was intoxicated by his new authority. He asked the representatives of the army, the Shin Bet and the Mossad to leave until the end of the internal discussion within the Security Cabinet forum.
Once the cabinet members were left on their own, he said, “Gentlemen, this isn’t a simple matter. We take care to maintain a low profile in our activities throughout the world. This time, it’s a different, complex situation. I’m not sure that France and the other European countries will be happy to see Israel flexing its muscles beyond its distant eastern corner of the Mediterranean Basin. I accept the Mossad director’s recommendation that we act only as backup.”
Most of the attendees nodded in agreement.
Geula emerged from the prime minister’s bureau and asked the head of the Military Intelligence Directorate, Mossad Director Izzo Galili and his deputy Arik Bar-Nathan to return to the conference room. Once they had entered, Tzur said: “We still haven’t come to a decision. I’m going to initiate a conference call with the French president. I ask that you stay here with me.”
Chapter 60
Fort-de-France, the Island of Martinique
It was Sunday in Paris. The phone in the president’s office was answered by a sleepy officer on duty, who informed the Israeli prime minister’s military secretary, with great politeness, that the president was currently touring French territories in the Pacific Ocean.
“Where exactly is he now?” Ami, the military secretary, asked.
“He’s in Martinique.”
Galili whispered to him: “Ask them what time it is now in Martinique.”
The military secretary did, and the officer on duty explained: “It’s seven hours earlier there, meaning it’s now noon in Fort-de-France, on a Sunday.”
“Excellent,” the secretary said. “Please try to get him on the line urgently for our prime minister. May I suggest that it would be best to use the secure line at Élysée Palace? It’s not ideal in terms of the security of the connection, but I hope the conversation will be scrambled and encrypted at least between Paris and the president’s entourage.”
“Please hold on,” said the officer on duty.
After a long interval, the connection was established. The French president, it turned out, was in the midst of a golf game with his entourage against the governor of the island of Martinique.
“Monsieur Le President,
mon ami,” said Ehud Tzur, the Israeli prime minister, continuing in English: “Forgive me for interrupting you in the middle of a game on your day of rest, but there’s an urgent problem I have to share with you.”
“Let me guess,” the president chuckled, obviously in a good mood, probably after a few piña coladas. “You’re having problems with the Palestinians again, and you need my help to veto a UN decision condemning you tomorrow at the Security Council?”
“No, Mr. President. I’m calling you on an entirely different matter. An urgent problem has come up concerning the fate of a shared friend of ours. We’ve received disturbing news. I assume Admiral Lacoste has discussed it with you recently,” Tzur tried to avoid explicitly stating the sensitive information.
“You mean the attempted coup in Morocco?” the French president asked, causing a spike of adrenaline in the Israeli contingency.
“Admiral Lacoste agreed with you on a method of operation to protect our mutual friend, but my man just got back from Lacoste’s office, and it turns out that what they’d agreed on had been changed, or been assigned a different urgency level, and now our friend is in real danger due to all kinds of foxes,” Ehud Tzur tried to maneuver.
“I don’t understand a thing you’re saying. What foxes? I’m handing you over to Admiral Lacoste. His English is better than mine,” the French president said.
“Admiral Lacoste here. With whom do I have the honor of speaking?” said the head of the DGSE.
“Admiral,” Tzur said, “this is Ehud Tzur, prime minister of Israel, and next to me is the director of the Israeli Mossad Institute for Intelligence, Izzo Galili, as well as your friend Arik Bar-Nathan.”
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” Lacoste asked politely.
Tzur handed the receiver to Arik, signaling him to continue the conversation. “Talk to him openly. The ratio of importance versus the risk of the insecure connection is worth it. At worst, the Americans and the Russians are monitoring the conversation. We have no choice.”