by Nathan Ronen
“Of course I’ll come to Mother’s funeral. When are you having it?”
“Apparently, it’ll only happen the day after tomorrow, probably in the morning. At the Old Haifa Cemetery. My parents have a joint burial plot there.”
“I hope I make it on time. Where are you sitting Shiva for Mother?” asked Eva, who had once begun preparations for converting to Judaism, and was familiar with Jewish religious customs, including the traditional seven days of mourning.
“At her home, on 12 Rabbi Maimon Street, in the Neve Sha’anan neighborhood.”
“I remember the apartment. Send me the address in a text message. I’ll take a taxi from the airport.”
“Thank you, Eva,” Arik said, his voice low.
“Why ‘thank you’? It’s your mother, and I love her son.”
Naomi, who was standing next to him and heard the conversation, grew flushed with anger, lashing out at him once he was done talking to Eva. “Have you lost your mind?” she asked weepily. “What do you mean, the funeral will be the day after tomorrow? You know that according to the Jewish tradition, you can’t leave the dead unburied overnight. Mother’s funeral will take place this afternoon, and that’s final.”
Arik felt emotionally trapped. He hugged his sister, but she pushed him away angrily. He held on tight, whispering in her ear, “Naomi, I have to leave for Paris today or early tomorrow morning for twenty-four hours, to nail down an issue with national implications.”
Naomi quickly interrupted him: “That’s more important than your mother’s funeral? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
He embraced her again wordlessly, his eyes filling with tears, whispering in her ear again. “My dear sister, I’m sorry, this is serious and very important. You have to trust me like you used to.”
She shook off his hug and pushed him away. “Do whatever you want. You always did whatever suited you, anyway.”
He gazed at her helplessly, shedding silent tears. “I need twenty-four hours. It’s not something personal; it’s a national emergency.”
Naomi fled the room, keening in heart-wrenching sobs. Arik called her husband Eli, a municipal engineer for the city of Haifa, succinctly explaining what he was allowed to share. “Elushka, if I’m not back in two days, for whatever reason, bury my mother in an appropriate Orthodox religious ceremony. I’m trusting you with this.”
He reached the offices of the Ashkenazi Chevra Kadisha organization in the Hadar neighborhood, next to the large synagogue. “I’m looking for Rabbi Brickman,” he said firmly.
“That’s me,” replied a man dressed in a traditional black suit. His clothes emitted a sour smell of sweat, mingled with the scent of sulfur from the depilation cream he used39.
Arik handed him his mother’s death certificate from the geriatric hospital as well as the burial permit from the Ministry of Health. “Place my mother in the morgue at Rambam Hospital. The funeral will take place day after tomorrow, in the morning,” he told the unbelieving head of the Chevra Kadisha team in Yiddish mixed with Hebrew words, extracting 1,000 NIS from his pocket and handing it over. “This is for the extra expenses caused by the rescheduling.”
The man tucked the money into his pocket, produced a large weekly planner, and wrote down: “In two days at 11 a.m. at the Kfar Samir Cemetery. Do you want a double plot?”
“We already have one. Look for the lot and plot for Leibush Rechtman, RIP, next to Tamar Gate.”
* * *
39 Orthodox Jews use depilation cream to remove and shape facial hair, as razors are forbidden under Jewish law.
Chapter 65
The “Little Armenia” Neighborhood on the Outskirts of Paris
The information he had received about Eddy Constantine’s involvement in the Iranian delegation coming to buy uranium in Chad was constantly gnawing at Arik. Due to his mother’s unexpected death and the impending funeral, he did not have time to activate his usual affiliates. He would need to use other tools he was not eager to utilize; however, he had no choice. He knew every station manager had a shadowy support apparatus called “the network,” an alternative lifeline used only in emergencies. A network of this kind could summon doctors who would provide immediate assistance through medical care or emergency surgery and admission to a private hospital, without asking questions about the identity of an injured agent or asset. This network could transport a stowaway or hidden cargo without inquiring about their nature, using pilots with an available plane or helicopter at out-of-the-way airports. Such a network had graphic designers and print workers who could quickly forge and print documents. The members of the network were always compensated generously and in cash, in return for complete discretion.
He called Izzo Galili. “Boss, it’s Arik.”
“I heard about your mother dying. My condolences,” Galili said.
“Claire, my assistant, will soon send a message on my behalf about the details and location of the funeral. I have to leave on an urgent twenty-four-hour trip to Paris. I have to sort out that mess with Eddy Constantine. I’ve got to know what’s going on there. I can’t take a force to Morocco without knowing that someone’s got my back.”
“When are you leaving?” Galili asked in amazement.
“Now—this evening or early tomorrow. Actually, on the first flight the Travel Department can book me.”
“You’re off your rocker. You’d miss your mother’s funeral?” Galili thundered out.
“The funeral is scheduled for two days from now. It’s all taken care of. I’ll be back in time.”
“Keep me posted, and no more surprises,” Galili said gruffly.
“I intend to set up a minor ‘false flag’ operation,” Arik said, providing Galili with the details and asking his permission in advance to take some money from the ‘petty cash’ fund that was at his disposal to finance special operations.
Galili was cautious, as was his custom. “Let me think about it. This is a dangerous game. At the moment, I’m not approving it. Call me once you’re there and have the pertinent information, and update me. Then we’ll see.”
His next call was to Haya Calmi, the head of the Mossad’s Paris station. “Hi, Haya’le, it’s Arik Bar-Nathan,” he said affectionately. “How’s your husband Danny?”
After a brief silence, Arik heard Haya replying: “Arik, you didn’t call me to make small talk. We’ve known each other for a long time. What do you need and when do you need it?”
“I need to get to Paris as soon as I can, and I need an urgent meeting with Bislan the Chechen.”
“‘Lame’ Bislan al-Shishani? You mean the head of the Caucasian mafia? I have to check whether he’s still around.”
“Thanks,” Arik said, hanging up.
All flights to Paris were full, and the Mossad’s Travel Department had no choice but to make use of the expertise of the Digital Fortress Unit, which hacked the list of approved passengers on the Air France flight taking off at dawn from Tel Aviv to Paris. They listed one seat in business class under Arik’s new name, Henri Dumas, and switched the name of one poor, innocent passenger to the standby list.
Haya Calmi was waiting for him at Charles de Gaulle Airport as he exited the passengers’ lounge, accompanied by one of her oversized security guards. She looked depressed.
“Is everything okay at home?” Arik asked, examining her attentively.
“The trials of aging parents. You know how it is,” she said. “My mother is at a moshav40 in the Sharon plain. She fell and broke her pelvis, and I’m her only child. But I’m here, and she’s there. I’m taking care of my mother through a Philippine caretaker, by remote control.”
“I get it,” Arik said, and did not tell her about his own mother’s death.
“Bislan the Chechen is here in Paris. But I find him to be a repulsive, sneaky and ruthless character. He’d sell his own mother if he could make a profit,” Haya s
aid with an expression of disgust.
“Those are exactly the characteristics I require for the type of quick job I need,” Arik said vaguely, not sharing his intentions with the station manager. Despite her curiosity and her senior position in the Mossad, Haya did not pressure him. The Mossad was designed to maximize compartmentalization, and if you were not required to be in on the details of a specific operation, you didn’t interfere and did not ask questions. It was probably better if you didn’t know. Nevertheless, Arik felt compelled to say: “I know he doesn’t work with us and is just part of the network…”
“It’s fine,” Haya said. “You don’t have to explain.”
Arik knew the Chechen as a forger specializing in speedy, good-quality work for people who needed a new identity. He had excellent connections within all government agencies in Paris, and handled professionals in various fields, in return for a generous cut of the profits.
They drove toward the town of Issy-les-Moulineaux, west of Paris, parking the car across from a typical Armenian cathedral. “Why do they actually call him ‘Lame Bislan’?” Arik asked.
“His limp is his mark of Cain. It was caused by members of the Russian security service, who chopped off his toes when they believed he tried to double-cross them and sell information to the French security services as well. The only reason they let him live was his network of connections and the quality of services he provided. That’s probably the only reason you need him, too. I have no doubt the son of a bitch is the best at what he does.”
Arik nodded.
“Do you want us to come with you?” she asked carefully, slanting a look at her bodyguard.
“No, thanks, I’ll be fine. I’ll take the subway back and get to you in two hours. Can we have dinner together?”
“When are you flying back?” Haya asked.
“Midnight. Can you give me a ride to Charles de Gaulle Airport around ten?”
Haya nodded. “We’ll have dinner at my place. Do you still like duck in orange sauce?”
Arik crossed the street and found himself facing an old, neglected building behind a rusted six-foot iron gate, covered with yellowing advertising flyers. The gate looked as if no one had entered it during the last decade. He detected two security cameras that were tracking his movements and knocked on the rusted gate with an open palm, as he could not see a doorbell. It opened with a creak and two Somali men stepped out. Arik assumed they were illegal immigrants, as there was no need to visit ‘Lame Bislan’ unless you were lacking legal documents or had some illicit business that would be of great interest to the police.
Arik thrust his foot in the entryway and stepped into a small courtyard. The gate slammed behind him loudly. Across from him stood two burly thugs who looked like Spetsnaz soldiers, members of the Russian Army’s Special Forces. They were openly holding compact Kalashnikov rifles with a collapsible stock. One of them walked over to Arik and growled something indecipherable. Arik raised his hands and extended his arms sideways. The gorilla’s massive hands expertly scanned his body, including his private parts, while his colleague aimed his weapon at Arik’s chest.
Arik was pushed forward roughly and now found himself standing before a handsome wooden door equipped with an intercom button and a camera. He pressed the button and saw the security camera zooming in on his face.
Bislan’s deep voice boomed from behind the door. “Arik, my friend, long time.” The door opened and he was greeted by the form of ‘Lame Bislan,’ grinning from ear to ear. He followed Bislan al-Shishani down the long corridor. They passed by a large workshop, which included a studio and a photography lab, as well as a large library full of computers, high-tech printers and various types of paper arranged in different drawers.
“What brings you to me so urgently?” Bislan asked, sitting down with a sigh in a stylish recliner. “You guys in the Israeli Mossad have the best forgers in the world. Why are you slumming and coming to see me?”
“I need someone quick and good. Everyone knows you’re the best in town.”
Bislan smirked with obvious pleasure. “You’re just sucking up, but on the other hand, everyone does know that I’m the best in town, right?”
Bislan limped over to a large, glistening samovar resembling a silver flower vase with shapely legs, standing at the corner of the room. He picked up two delicate glasses and filled them with fragrant Russian black tea. Inserting each glass in an elegant silver cup holder, he placed them on a tray. From a glass box, he produced Russian tea cookies and placed them on a saucer. Rectangular sugar cubes were arrayed on another crystal saucer, with tiny silver tongs placed next to them.
The ritual took several minutes, and Arik knew it was a part of Eastern European manners. He was, however, surprised, that it was being carried out by Bislan himself, rather than a servant. Bislan picked up a sugar cube and put it in his mouth. He raised his glass of steaming tea and drank the dark beverage with a loud slurp. Only then did he bite with relish into the round almond cookie, which left a dusting of sugar on his dark shirt, as he spun his mental wheels attempting to discern the reason for his Israeli guest’s visit.
“If you need original passports, totally clean, I’ve recently gotten some Belgian passports with new serial numbers; no one’s reported them as stolen.”
“I need a completely different kind of job,” Arik said, also noisily sipping his steaming tea, which burned his tongue, and biting into the crispy cookies.
“I also have some good ones from New Zealand…” Bislan tried again. “I’ll give you a special price: just 5,000 euro per original passport.”
“Bislan, thanks, but no thanks. I need to tail someone who I think is working with the Iranians and receiving money from them. I need close surveillance, photos, hacking into bank accounts, and possibly a hit as well.”
Bislan stopped the commotion he was making as he drank his tea and ate his cookies, eyeing Arik tensely. It was obvious that work of this kind was not foreign to him. It was his favorite sort of task, and the most lucrative kind, as well.
“Why do you need me when you have a whole Mossad apparatus in Paris? No… don’t tell me. This is discreet work and you don’t want it linked to your Paris station, right?”
Arik nodded with a fleeting smile.
“Is the target himself private or government?”
“Government.”
Bislan whistled in appreciation. “French?... You’ve got balls.”
Arik did not respond.
“In Armenia, we have a proverb that goes: ‘There’s two ways of handling a problem. You can put up with it or you can eliminate it.’ So, I’m telling myself, if you could put up with the problem, my phone wouldn’t be ringing, and the great Arik Bar-Nathan wouldn’t show up all the way from Tel Aviv to see me. Am I right?”
Arik examined Bislan’s logical thought process with a smile. He knew exactly where the man was going with this. He nodded and continued to sip his tea and nibble the cookies, intentionally avoiding eye contact with Bislan.
“Can I know who the target is?” ‘Bislan the Lame’ attempted to fish for the name of the quarry in order to toss out a price and commence the negotiation game with an opening bid that was as high as possible.
“I need full discretion,” Arik said, his expression solemn. “I’ll view any attempt to warn the target in an attempt to get money from both sides with the utmost severity. I need to know I can trust your integrity.”
“I don’t care who the guy is, and how much he’s pissed you off. I’m a man with no emotions. The Russians already surgically removed them from me with no anesthesia ten years ago, in the Second Chechen War, when they slaughtered my entire family in Grozny, and I barely managed to escape to Paris with a fake passport.”
Arik smiled internally. He was aware of Bislan’s reputation. The man had lived in Paris for several years as a double agent who collaborated with the rebels in
his home country of Chechnya, contributing money to them, while also working with the FSB41, which paid him handsomely for information on the resistance’s leaders. Bislan had collaborated with both sides so many times that any distinction between good and evil no longer existed as far as he was concerned. His ethical values had long been converted into currency.
“Bislan, my friend,” Arik said, “we both know you’re not the boss, and that there are anonymous, respectable people in the Arminian and Chechen communities that are pulling the strings. I just want to make sure that….”
“I know you Israelis take the ultimate revenge when you’re betrayed…” Bislan placed his hand on his breast in a solemn oath. His toeless foot suddenly flared up with a sharp phantom pain.
Arik’s gaze conveyed ruthless determination. He grasped Bislan’s hand in a forceful grip, nearly breaking it. “Bislan, remember! We never threaten with death. We kill.”
“I’m aware of your reputation,” Bislan said. “No need to clarify that point any further. So, what’s the name of the mark?”
“We Israelis conduct negotiations differently. First, I want to know the required scope of activity, how many people, and what kind of equipment you intend to use, in order to know if your price is appropriate.”
“I get it. How high up is this man?”
“He’s the head of a government agency. Why?”
“Because the more prominent the player, the higher the price,” said Bislan, bright-eyed.
“Obviously,” Arik agreed.
“You want information, and then you’ll make a decision on the hit? And how long do I have?”
“I need an answer in three days. No stories. I need material for guaranteed legal incrimination or eliminating the target in a seemingly innocuous accident the moment a decision is made.”
Bislan whistled again. His mental gears were spinning with insane speed while his small eyes scurried hither and thither restlessly.
Arik walked over to the samovar and poured himself another glass of tea, sat down across from Bislan again, and began nibbling more little tea cookies, this time eyeing Bislan with a piercing gaze.