by Nathan Ronen
“No, sit down!” Arik commanded. “Everything seems too simple and smooth to me. So why am I horribly worried, you’re probably asking yourselves, right?” His gray eyes scanned their faces.
The State of Israel was not sending Arik and his team to Morocco in order to get flustered once they arrived. It was sending him there precisely because he was capable of maintaining his equanimity. He examined the maps and the photos again, noting every objection or raised eyebrow by any of the commanders sitting around the table. All of this information filtered into his mind, and was identified, analyzed, classified and stored. Arik knew that the intelligence game resembled assembling a puzzle in the dark. You thought you were putting together parts that should fit perfectly, but in trying to see the big picture, there were too many assumptions that were not supported by clear-cut facts, which frustrated him.
They looked at him in query.
“Have you ever heard of an experiment called ‘The Gorilla in the Room’?”
None of the commanders had.
“A group of people are placed in front of a screen and told they’re about to watch a clip of two basketball teams, each dressed in a different colored uniform. One is wearing black jerseys, the other white. Each team tosses the ball to the other, and the spectators are asked to count how many time the ball passes between the black team and the white team. Three-quarters of the participants don’t even see the man in the gorilla suit crossing the screen, standing in front of the camera for a moment, and then leaving the frame. They’re too busy with the task they’ve been given, counting the balls.”
They were looking at him oddly, unable to see the necessity in spending time on philosophy or games.
“I’m talking about a certain kind of blindness that isn’t caused by any sort of vision impairment. In this case, it’s ‘attention blindness’—failure to detect unexpected objects that appear right where you’re looking, because your attention is directed elsewhere.”
Arik’s listeners were trying to discern his meaning, watching him quietly.
“We’re a small group of three fighter teams. The moment I assign you your tasks, you’ll be so busy with the tactical aspects of the operation that you might not notice the many unknowns that are currently a part of the plan. I don’t know what the French agreed on with the Moroccan security forces, I don’t know who all the players are on either team, or how serious the French are about protecting the king; I don’t know if there’s another backup terrorist cell we’re not aware of, or what they agreed on with the king of Morocco, and I’m afraid that if the whole operation goes to hell, we’ll become the French’s scapegoats, not to mention the fact that if this fails, I have to hand in the keys and face immediate retirement.”
“What do you propose, then?” Jonathan asked.
“We have to take care not to look in the direction the terrorist organization wants us to look. We have to be constantly aware of the need to be skeptical, and keep our eyes open in all directions. Knowing our limitations will cause us to be less trusting, and rightly so. I think that a bit of doubt about our capabilities and knowing our limitations might make us more tolerant of other people’s perspectives.”
The commanders were trying to interpret his intentions.
“I need you to go home and make a plan that includes an alternate, contrasting version to the planning principles I’ve presented to you. The Jewish Talmud teaches us to let our minds duke it out with other minds. That’s the only way to make sparks fly. I’m asking you to disagree with my basic assumptions, to try and walk in the terrorists’ shoes, to think like they do. As someone who’s seen a thing or two on the battlefield, I can tell you that a hero can sometimes be an idiot who got lucky.”
“But what exactly is our role?” Jonathan Arieli asked.
“Supposedly, we’re only an auxiliary force. But if the French fail, we might be sucked into a vacuum that could turn into a ‘snowball operation’ veering out of control, in which case we’ll have to take on a central role. I prefer that you train as if the entire operation was in our hands. I want to see an attack plan with a specification of positions, observation angles, lines of fire, escape routes, a backup plan in case something goes wrong, and a backup plan to the backup plan. The most important thing is to prevent any crossfire with the French. Take into account that what Rashid told us might be unintentional misinformation, due to false information that Kadiri or Iman al-Uzbeki fed him.”
“Are the French aware of our presence?”
“Not officially,” Arik said enigmatically.
Chapter 70
Le Bourget Airport, near Paris
Louis-Pierre was sitting in the front row of the French Air and Space Museum’s lecture hall, wearing the light-colored, striped camouflage uniform of the French Commando forces. A large sign on the airport fence declared the site to be closed due to renovations.
On the stage, in civilian clothing, stood Brigadier Eddy Constantine, head of the DGSE’s Operations Administration, directing a laser pointer at slides and aerial photos of the Grand Mosque in Casablanca, Morocco, projected onto a giant screen.
“Today we embark on Operation Caracal. The official objective of the operation is to help Morocco in its battle against Muslim rebels who have taken over the southern part of the country and are trying to launch a coup throughout the kingdom. These are several groups with an ideological affinity to al-Qaeda, which makes this operation part of the global war against terrorism.”
The audience consisted of commanders of Special Forces units, including the Army’s Special Brigade, the Marines and Navy Commando units, as well as a battalion commander from the Foreign Legion’s Parachute Dragoon Regiment and other Legion commando units.
“In five days, the largest mosque in the world will be inaugurated—Casablanca’s ‘Mosque on the Sea.’ All Arab country leaders, kings and presidents will come to celebrate in the presence of the king of Morocco. Intelligence information we’ve obtained proves that al-Qaeda intends to sabotage the event and kill as many leaders as possible in order to create chaos. Our intel indicates that they’ll camouflage the attack under the misleading name Arab Spring, creating a liberal smokescreen of a supposed mass uprising against the Arab tyrants in order to mask their true goal, causing the Western media and some of the leaders of the free world to mindlessly support the new political forces in the Arab countries, which will masquerade as democratic ones.
“The president of the republic and the minister of defense have instructed us to stop this process the moment it begins, in a decisive, uncompromising manner. A hundred and eighty commando fighters will take off in five helicopters from the air carrier Charles de Gaul, anchored opposite the coast of Casablanca, with support from the hospital ship Mistral. We already have one foot on the ground in the form of an intelligence team monitoring the site until the operation begins. Your raid needs to block a joined assault by three terrorist cells, including one apparently arriving by sea. It’s possible that additional attacks we have yet to identify will also take place.
“I want you to understand that this not a colonial war. But if we don’t block the Islamists in the Sahel region and in North Africa, we’ll soon be dealing with them here on French soil.”
Constantine did not mention the name of Iman al-Uzbeki, the arch-terrorist, even though he was supposed to have done so. He was irked by the fact that most of the information had been provided by Israeli intelligence, and did not trust it until receiving confirmation from French sources.
The phone in Louis-Pierre’s pocket buzzed. He retrieved it, wondering who was bothering him in the middle of an operational briefing, despite the explicit instructions he had left. It was an international call. Under cover of darkness, he mumbled, “Just a minute, I’m at a lecture,” and went out to corridor.
“This is Louis-Pierre,” he stated his name firmly.
“Hello, mon ami,” he hear
d the familiar voice of the Israeli Arik Bar-Nathan.
“How did you get this unlisted number, and how did you manage to connect to the DGSE’s network?” Louis-Pierre asked in disbelief.
“You must know that’s a question I can’t answer. I wanted to talk to you on an encrypted line.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t talk to you right now,” Louis-Pierre mumbled quietly.
“Louis, I understand you’re a professional and don’t deal with internal politics, but I talked to Admiral Lacoste a few days ago, after the incident with Eddy Constantine at his office… And…”
“It’s not that simple,” Louis-Pierre whispered, looking both ways to see if anyone was listening in. “An open feud has broken out between Admiral Lacoste and Eddy Constantine, and although the president approved Lacoste’s plan, the minister of defense actually supports the plan that Constantine presented to him. Our president is still abroad, and can’t decide the matter…”
“I understand,” Arik muttered, seeing the entire plan that had been agreed upon collapsing in front of his eyes. “Louis, I’ll be there with my force if the need arises,” he said, “and I’m telling you this in order to prevent a situation where, heaven forbid, we find our forces shooting at each other.”
Louis-Pierre stayed silent. Should he go and update his boss, or just say nothing? His loyalty to the system was clashing with his affinity with and appreciation for Arik Bar-Nathan and the plan he had conceived.
“When are you getting there?” Louis-Pierre asked.
“One day before the inauguration of the mosque,” Arik replied honestly.
“Alone or with a force?”
“I don’t know how secure your phone is. I suggest we meet in Casablanca and I’ll talk to you in person.”
“Okay, then, see you in four days?” Louis-Pierre concluded, reaching a decision to pretend the call had never taken place. Although his training instructed him to always inform his superiors, this time, he decided to stay silent.
“Where’s Admiral Lacoste?” Arik asked.
“I think he’s pouting and barricading himself in his family’s estate in Provence, near the town of Èze.”
“I’ll find him,” Arik said.
“Talk to you soon. I have to get back. There’s an operational briefing going on here.”
“I’ll Skype you encrypted instructions. Do you have Skype?”
“No,” Louis-Pierre said.
“Look me up on Skype, ‘ArikBarNathan,’ all one word, and send me a Friend request.”
“Okay, but only if I have time.”
“Best of luck. We’ll talk in Casablanca,” Arik concluded, hanging up.
Chapter 71
The Town of Èze, Provence, the South of France
The old phone rang loudly in Villa Denise, located at the edge of a bluff in the picturesque town of Èze. Admiral Lacoste was sitting in the rocking chair left to him by his father, himself a French Navy man, smoking his pipe. He was gazing hazily at the Mediterranean Sea sprawling below him in deep shades of blue. At the entrance to the village stood a humorous sign stating: “Èze = Chèvre,” meaning that the steep path winding up toward the village was intended for goats only.
The villa, named after his great-grandmother Arduinna, later called Denise in French, was built at the top of a sharp mountainous slope, plummeting from a height of nearly 450 yards straight into the sea. His ancient house clung like an eagles’ nest to the towering cliff on which his ancestors, members of the Ligurian people, had dwelled, fortifying it against pirates. Staying at the village endowed him with a feeling of peace and allowed him to lose track of time. This was the place to which he fled when experiencing internal turmoil or to contemplate confidential operations.
The phone rang again. “Monsieur l’Admiral…?” his loyal housekeeper, Francine-Giselle, called out loudly as she roamed through the rooms of the house with the phone in her hand.
“I’m here, in the balcony!” he yelled in response.
She should have known this.
“Who is it?” the admiral grumbled. He was afraid it was once again the minister of defense, whom he loathed.
“It’s someone talking French with a foreign accent.” She placed the phone on the table across from him. “His name is Monsieur Bar-Nathan.”
The admiral picked up the receiver.
“Arik?” he asked.
“Admiral Lacoste, how are you, my good friend? I hear there’s a commotion in your neck of the woods,” Arik answered with a smile.
“You know what happens in our innermost chambers, too?” the admiral laughed, unsurprised.
“I’m calling because I’m concerned about what my prime minister decided on with your president.”
“I apologize. I received confirmation of the plan we’d agreed on from the president of the republic, but when I returned from my trip, I found out that the head of my Operations Division had convinced the minister of defense that it wasn’t a good plan, and the minister and I have had our differences. I’m waiting for the president to return from overseas in two days.”
“In two days?” Arik found himself shouting out in frustration.
“I’m as aware as you are of the tight schedule and the need for preparations. But as someone who knows you, I’m assuming you’re not putting off whatever needs to be done, and are preparing for any eventuality. Am I right?”
Arik did not reply.
“You’re a graduate of the Modern War Institute in West Point, right?” Lacoste asked enigmatically.
“No!” Arik replied. “I’m actually a graduate of France’s own Institute for Higher National Defense Studies. Why do you ask? How is that related to what you just told me?”
“Well, I’m sure you learned about the Battle of Waterloo there, and analyzed Napoleon’s defeat and the downfall of his empire at the hands of forces that were at a numerical disadvantage compared to him, right?”
Arik hummed in assent, trying to understand where the conversation was going.
“My minister of defense is a politician. He didn’t study higher strategy at military schools like we did, but he knows how to route us professionals to the battlefield, and actually defeat us at home, on the political chessboard of constitutional democracy.”
“Those shitheads.” Arik could not control his frustration. “The only thing that interests those sons-of-bitches politicians is their own survival.”
“Arik, my friend, we might be illustrious operations and intelligence experts, but it turns out we’re complete rookies on the political battlefield. I’ve learned from personal experience that there are no saints in politics. No one does anything unless they can profit from it. I’ve been here almost seven years now, and I can tell you it’s an opportunistic, hypocritical, faithless system. Any commitment given to you, even if it’s in writing, is only valid for the moment it was given. Any promise might as well have been written on ice on a hot day. And the sort of loyalty you and I know from the army is just shifting sands here.”
“I thought that was just an Israeli malaise,” Arik muttered.
“No, it’s a malaise common to all democratic regimes.”
“In politics, stupidity is not a handicap,” Arik noted. “What do you intend to do?”
The admiral chuckled. “Here in the South of France, we have a saying: ‘A Christian forgives, and an idiot forgets.’”
“I’m not an idiot,” Arik said.
“Or a Christian,” the admiral jokingly reminded him. “But I won’t hold that against you.”
“What happens next, then?” Arik asked.
“As far as I’m concerned, there is no next. I know the minister of defense intends to run for president here, and he has his own agenda and his own loyal followers in every agency. I’m not one of them.”
“Did you talk to the client?” Arik asked, dis
creetly referring to the king of Morocco.
“The president took that part upon himself. I know his office manager tried to get in touch with the ‘client’ immediately after our transatlantic call, but unfortunately, the client was busy with some car race in the Pyrenees Mountains, and I was already rushing to return here. Like we said, politicians have their own timetables and their own pace. At the moment, unfortunately, I’ve got nothing new to tell you.”
“I need a little help from you,” Arik said.
“Whatever I can do,” Lacoste replied with wry chivalry.
“I need you to make sure out station managers in Morocco and their staff can return to Morocco immediately. Their familiarity with the turf and their connections, especially my team’s, could prove valuable to the operation.”
“Consider it done. I’ll talk to whomever I need to among the king’s assistants,” Lacoste promised.
“But it has to be done without Kadiri finding out about it,” Arik reminded him. “I think he’s still furious about me getting away.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll talk to the king about re-establishing my extension immediately. Kadiri won’t want to piss me off, and your people can come along with mine and work from our office for now,” the admiral concluded.
“So let’s decide to keep each other posted on any updates,” Arik added. “Did you get the information I sent your office about the ‘dark side’s’ commander?”
“Not yet, but I’m sure they’ll update me. Louis-Pierre is a good man. Try to talk to him,” the admiral said.
“I did try. And his loyalty as a French officer is to the system he works for and to his boss. And I respect that… Where will you be in the week to come?” Arik asked.
“I’m returning home to Paris tomorrow. Too much mountain air makes me dizzy. I want to prepare for my meeting with the president, who will be back the day after tomorrow.”
“I might be able to send you a bit of ammunition for your own little battle. I trust you’ll make good use of it,” Arik concluded.