by Nathan Ronen
“Stop!” Alex said, pointing at the grove and the sculpture garden. He produced a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the dust off a nearby bench, and sat down on it.
Alex’s solemn expression was worrying Arik. Was his friend ill, and wanted to share this fact with him?
“Things are happening that I consider to be unacceptable,” Alex said. “I mean to say that someone with the authorization to access all the secrets of ‘The Pool’ is using this information for purposes that might not align with the security of the State of Israel.”
The only person with authority to access all this information, other than the heads of the operational divisions, was Mossad Director Izzo Galili. “What you’re saying here is serious,” Arik said. “Do you have any proof?”
“I have examples,” Alex said. “Do you remember establishing ‘Back Door,’ the unit for financial warfare against finance elements assisting terrorist organizations in transferring funds?”
Arik nodded.
“Suddenly, the prime minister’s people are preventing us from sending an expert witness to the US Court on behalf of Back Door to testify regarding the involvement of Chinese banks in monetary transfers that ultimately serve to fund terrorism, and all this after we’d reached an agreement with American Jewish families whose loved ones were injured in terrorist attacks in Israel that they would sue the American banks. If the central witness can’t get there with all the material we’ve assembled, there goes the suit. Moreover, the American shell corporation we established during your time here, Guardians of the Wall, with authorization from Cornfield and the discreet consent of the CIA and the US Department of Justice, might end up having to pay compensation to the Chinese, and we might get accused of contempt of court by the US attorney general.”
“What do you mean? Why is the Prime Minister’s Office doing that?” Arik was puzzled.
“I found out that that there’s a Jewish American tycoon who’s been providing the prime minister with generous financial support, and this tycoon, who owns a gambling town on some Chinese island, has been coercing the prime minister on behalf of his Chinese partners to ease the pressure on the Chinese banks on this topic. My hypothesis is that he might have a shared agenda with the Chinese to open another large casino in Shanghai, and he wants to show the Chinese he can help them on a different matter. I find it hard to believe, but I think the prime minister and his emissary Galili don’t care if delicate, top-secret intelligence work that took years to gather now gets tossed out.”
“Do you have proof?” Arik insisted.
“I don’t have anything concrete, but there are strange things going on, and my people are starting to ask questions,” Alex mumbled.
“Thanks for bringing it to my attention. Why don’t you ask someone you know to start discreetly looking into what’s going on?”
“But you’re the deputy Mossad director and head of the Operations Administration and my boss,” Alex complained.
“Alex, other than rumors and unsubstantiated theories, you’ve got nothing at the moment. I’m in the midst of preparations for a complex operation in an enemy country more than 2,000 miles from here, and I don’t have the time or the mental energy to deal with this at the moment. Think of someone whose honesty and integrity you trust. I’ll back you up. Start collecting proof rather than gossip.”
“Could it be someone who’s no longer working here with us, but whose integrity I trust?”
“No problem’” Arik said, distracted, glancing at his watch. In less than an hour, he had to be at IDF’s Supreme Command Post.
* * *
37 Dialena means “one of ours” in Moroccan Jewish dialect.
38 The Feast of Transfiguration is celebrated by various Eastern Orthodox churches, and often includes a “Blessing of First Fruits.”
Chapter 63
“Camp Rabin,” IDF General Staff, Tel Aviv
Arik Bar-Nathan arrived at the General Staff HQ in his vehicle, accompanied by a small entourage, and presented his ID to the guard. The man signaled the armed guard within the reinforced glass cage, and the hydraulic barrier descended, allowing Arik to advance several feet and stop before a new barrier. The previous hydraulic barrier rose behind him, and only then did another heavy hydraulic barrier, capable of stopping a massive truck rigged with explosives from breaking through, descend in order to allow his vehicle to advance into the base itself.
The Supreme Command Post hall serving IDF’s Operations Directorate was located about 55 yards underground. A fortified bunker that looked as if it was situated within a safe, it was coated with concrete reinforced with five-feet-thick steel, with escape hatches in adjacent streets should the need arise.
Arik came in through the main entrance, depositing his weapon, cell phone and keys with the burly guards. He walked through an x-ray booth where the contents of his wallet and change receptacle were examined, and allowed to enter the lobby, equipped with two speedy elevators.
Long corridors with florescent signs showed the way to the Supreme Command Post, where the chief of General Staff and the entire General Staff forum were already waiting for him.
“I’m honored to introduce my friend Arik Bar-Nathan,” said Chief of General Staff Shlomo Tal, “head of the Mossad’s Operations Administration and deputy Mossad director. We’ve gotten a green light from the Security Cabinet to assist the Mossad in carrying out Operation Dialena, and IDF has been asked to provide any assistance it can. A dedicated budget for this purpose will be conveyed from the Mossad to IDF to cover all expenses.”
Arik stood up and nodded toward Jonathan Arieli, head of Caesarea, the Mossad’s Operations Division, who used a laser pointer to indicate Casablanca on a map of Morocco projected onto a giant screen.
“Gentlemen, Operation Dialena is a commando operation to save the king of Morocco. In accordance with the Security Cabinet’s decision, we’ll be there merely as a backup force for the French Special Forces, which will be handling the problem. We’ll go into action only if something unexpected happens, or if the French dissolve the agreed-upon plan due to reasons beyond our control.
“The duration of a flight from Israel to the city of Casablanca in Morocco is four and a half hours. The distance between Morocco and Israel is 2,330 miles. Personally, I’d prefer a hybrid operation, meaning a combination of splashy and stealth entrance, so that the Islamic Jihad forces know that the Israelis are there, along with a stealth appearance by the French. But our prime minister and the French president agreed that we’ll arrive incognito, on tiptoe, without leaving behind Israeli fingerprints. Furthermore, if something happens, we were never there, and the French will be deemed responsible,” Jonathan concluded.
“There are a lot of preparations for this. When is the operation set to take place?” the chief of General Staff asked Arik.
“In six days,” Arik replied, ignoring the cries of amazement and protest heard all around him.
“As I said, we’ll only be the backup force protecting Israeli interests to prevent an assassination of the Moroccan king. The king’s death might create a leadership vacuum, which will soon be exploited by the forces of the extreme Islamic Jihad, resulting in a rise to power of elements that support terrorism.” The forum was erupting in murmurs of astonishment. The chief of General Staff banged his fist on the table, hushing them.
“Gentlemen, what’s going on with you? IDF has already launched more complex projects in short intervals of time. Have you forgotten the Six-Day War, when IDF defeated three Arab countries in less than a week’s time?”
“That might have been true then…” the head of the Directorate of Military Intelligence, Major General Knafo, muttered. “But in 1967, they had a long time for preparations. Today, when wars have become asymmetrical due to a state fighting terrorist organizations, it’s a whole other deal.”
“In Operation Entebbe in June 1
976, in which IDF freed one hundred Israeli passengers who were aboard an Air France jet hijacked to Uganda, we were also dealing with international terrorist elements, and our prep time was very short then, as well,” the chief of General Staff silenced him.
Arik said quietly, “I need three Special Forces teams to arrive in Morocco under my command, equipped with everything necessary. I’m talking about a joint strike force, thirty fighters at most, ten per team, including demolition experts from the Combat Engineering Corps, a team of fighters from the naval commando, and a few Sayeret Matkal fighters specializing in counterterrorism at close range, camouflage, infiltration, climbing, scaling and rescue, and of course, a backup crew of doctors, combat medics, and comm personnel. Meaning no more than fifty people. It’s obvious to me that we won’t have time to organize a logistics and rear area, or a first-aid station, with a timeline like that.”
“I hope you also understand that with this range of activity and at such a distance from Israel, we won’t be able to offer naval or aerial logistic support,” said the head of the Army’s Operations Directorate.
“I definitely understand your apprehension,” Arik said, “but in the scenario I’m planning, we’re not the lead actors but only the supporting ones. Our role is to ensure the lead actors are doing their jobs properly. We’ll come to Morocco masquerading as a TV crew sent by the official state broadcast network of the Shiite Islamic country of Azerbaijan to cover the inauguration of the largest mosque in the world. We’ll take off from Tel Nof Airport in an authentic Ilyushin airlifter from Azerbaijan’s air force. Someone will obtain all the official permits for entry into Morocco and assigned places in the international media gallery. We’ll land in Casablanca Airport one day before the inauguration ceremony for the Grand Mosque, and from there, spread out to the places assigned to us by the organizers. In the crates of technical and supposed broadcast equipment we’ll bring with us, it’ll be easy to conceal all the weapons and ammunition we need for the operation, as well as the required control equipment.
“I suggest that tactical command over the forces onsite will be handled by head of the Mossad’s Caesarea Operations Division, Reserve Colonel Jonathan Arieli. He’ll begin training immediately using a model of the mosque and its surroundings at the Counterterrorism Academy in Adam Base, near Latrun. That part of the facility will have to be closed off for reasons of confidentiality. There are some sequences of close-range warfare against naval commando forces that we’ll have to practice with a crew of fighters from naval commando unit Shayetet 13 at their base in Atlit.
“I need you to prepare the three teams for me ASAP. They should be ready to take off in four days. We’ll supposedly be flying north, in the direction of Baku, Azerbaijan, so that Cyprus’s air-traffic control system identifies us as an Azeri aircraft. We’ll land at NATO’s Incirlik Air Base in Turkey for misinformation purposes only. We’ll merely do a ‘touch-and-go’ there, and then continue southwest to Morocco. I’ll be the coordinator, and present myself in Morocco as the head producer on behalf of Azerbaijan’s broadcast network. Does IDF want a representative on the ground or in an aerial command and control center?”
The chief of General Staff pointed up at the sky, signaling the presence of an Israeli command and control center in the sky in the Gibraltar area.
“Great. Please provide us with an accurate list of all the fighters and their photos as soon as you can, so we can issue them passports from the Republic of Azerbaijan. When we land at the destination, we’ll all be wearing badges from the Republic of Azerbaijan Broadcast Network. My people in Morocco are already working it out with the people in charge of production onsite.
“I also need some of the team members to have the technical ability to set up broadcast equipment, operate cameras and broadcast to the studio,” Arik turned to Jonathan Arieli, head of Caesarea.
“Not a problem. I have a reserve forces guy who’s a producer for Israel’s state TV network. I’ll call him in, and he’ll coach some of the team members.”
As Arik left the Pit, he returned his visitor’s badge and reclaimed his Chameleon and his personal cell phone from the security guard at the entrance. Five consecutive calls from his sister Naomi seemed to bode ill. The timing of the events he was currently dealing with, in conjunction with the possibility of news about his mother’s fragile health, could not have been more troublesome.
Chapter 64
12 Rabbi Maimon St., Neve Sha’anan, Haifa
Arik got into his car and began to drive on Ayalon Highway on his way to his office in north Tel Aviv. He called his sister Naomi in Haifa using speed dial.
“Hey, sis, sorry I couldn’t get back to you. I was somewhere where there’s no reception. How’s Mom?” he asked, hoping for a routine update.
“Arik, my dear brother, we’re orphans,” his sister burst into heart-rending tears. “Mom passed away an hour ago.”
He tried to maintain a relaxed tone of voice: “Okay. I’ll change my schedule and I’m on my way to see you in Haifa right now. I want to see Mom and say goodbye to her. Don’t let them take her to the morgue before I arrive,” he said, his voice breaking.
Feeling he couldn’t drive, he parked his car at the side of the road and covered his face with his hands. Tears of true pain and yearning rose within him. Memories of his mother made his heart bleed with a medley of guilty emotions.
Although small in stature, to him, she had always been a giant figure, a woman who had overcome a life crisis that could have shattered anyone. At the age of nineteen, she was already a widow and a bereaved mother who had managed to flee into the Russian-occupied region of Poland with a dead child in her arms and hide there. Later, when the Germans invaded Russia, she fled again, to the far planes of Kazakhstan, working her fingers to the bone at the kolkhoz in return for shelter and food. She had always been there for him, sometimes even being overprotective. He found solace in her large bosom, her full reddish hair and her warm green eyes. She was the driving force in her new family, as well as for all her remaining family members who had survived the war. She shielded him from the uncontrollable fits of rage exhibited by his father, also a Holocaust survivor who had lost a wife and two kids. She always sang him songs of yearning and consolation in Yiddish, interspersed with stories about her large Hassidic family, which had been murdered in the Holocaust.
The fact that his mother had become an old, geriatric woman was especially hard on Arik and his sister Naomi, because their family, like many families of second-generation Holocaust survivors, did not include any old people, and therefore, he had no understanding of old age. To him, his mother was a role model for leadership, a representative of a stubborn generation of survivors fighting for their existence despite all obstacles, who went on, with inexplicable tenacity, to found a state and raise children in a harsh, blazing country in the Middle East.
He now arrived at Beit Hagefen Geriatric Hospital in the northern city of Haifa. His sister ran to him with open arms. They hugged and cried, just as they would as little children hiding under the family’s large dining table on Sabbaths or holidays while their parents fought, trading verbal blows, false accusations and expressions of longing for the beloved spouse and children that each of them had had before the Holocaust. Arik and Naomi were “substitute children,” born to their parents after each of them had lost children in the Holocaust.
“Come say goodbye to Mom,” Naomi said, holding Arik’s hand as she’d done when they were children, a time when Arik had been a full-time parental child for her.
His mother was lying there in her bed, alone in the room. Her eyes were half open, her body withered and pale. The tubes that had been feeding her and the medical equipment had been taken from the room, and the hospital staff allowed them to say their goodbyes in private.
Arik cried soundlessly, stroking his mother’s thin, silvery hair. Naomi stood by his side, holding on to his waist forcefully. They had
resumed being their mother’s little children, and Arik was the elder among them, the parental child.
Naomi opened the drawer and took out the Nivea face cream their mother had liked, applying it over the mother’s face and hands. She slipped the gold rings off her fingers and asked Arik whether he wanted them. Arik shook his head.
He went out to the nurse station with Naomi and introduced himself. “I know you haven’t seen me around here much,” he said guiltily, “and I want to thank you for taking good care of my mother.”
“Come on, there are a lot of arrangements we have to make for the funeral,” Naomi whispered to him.
“Just a minute. I have to call Eva. She’s visiting her parents in Heidelberg along with Leo,” Arik said, finding a distant corner.
There was no reply when he dialed Eva’s cell phone, and Arik called her parents’ home.
“Von Kesserling,” an older woman barked at him in German.
“This is Arik Bar-Nathan from Israel,” Arik said in Yiddish, knowing the German woman could understand him.
“Eva has gone back to her job at the university. What do you want?” she asked, intentionally impolite.
“Tell Eva my mother passed away,” Arik switched to English, having run out of words in the Yiddish language, which was similar to German.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll let her know,” Eva’s mother softened somewhat and hung up.
When he was on his way to the offices of Chevra Kadisha, an organization offering Jewish burial services, Arik’s cell phone rang. The number had a 0049 area code.
“Hello, darling. I’m so sorry to hear about your mother. I know how important she was to you,” Eva said gently.
“I need you here by my side now,” he said, taut and expectant, while preparing himself to receive an evasive answer.