by Nathan Ronen
“How late are you?” the doctor asked her after the routine tests, smiling to herself mysteriously.
“Almost six weeks. I’m nearly forty-three years old, and my period is irregular now. I thought maybe you’d give me antibiotics and some pills for the heartburn…” Geula said.
The doctor gazed at her maternally. “I think congratulations are in order.”
Geula looked back in amazement. “…But I can’t be pregnant,” she said in disbelief.
“I suggest you go to the after-hours pharmacy and buy a pregnancy test,” the doctor said.
“How do I take it?”
“A few drops of urine on the test stick will indicate the level of hCG hormone in your blood. The more the pregnancy advances, the more the hormone level increases. If the answer is positive, two stripes will appear in the test stick’s window. If it’s negative, only the original stripe will show.”
Geula drove off to purchase the test. “How soon will I get an answer?” she interrogated the pharmacist.
“Usually within a few minutes. There’s also a ‘double duty’ test that allows you to find out not just whether you’re pregnant, but how far along you are.”
“That’s the one I want.” She drove home, greatly excited. The test stick displayed two stripes.
Geula Murduch was no longer alone. She was sure she wanted to keep the baby, the fruit of her love. But there was no room for Sasha there. He was a sweet boy who had satisfied her needs, but that was not what she needed now. She needed a partner, a man and not a boy.
The love affair was over, and real life was starting. She knew she needed to secure her own future and that of the fruit of her womb, and she knew what she needed to do. The first step was to stop supplying Sasha with incriminating material, and keep it for herself, for a rainy day. Sasha had concealed information from her. She needed ammunition and evidence in order to convince the state attorney to allow her to turn state’s evidence, and perhaps receive a generous pension agreement as well as a handsome sum of money that would last her for a good, long time.
It wasn’t every day that one could bring on the downfall of an advisor to the prime minister, and perhaps even more than that.
Chapter 74
Mohammed V International Airport, Casablanca
In the afternoon hours, the giant Ilyushin Il-76 airlifter, whose NATO code name was ‘Candid,’ landed in Mohammed V International Airport, about twenty miles south of Casablanca. It was among the largest cargo planes in the world, capable of transporting a sixty-ton cargo a distance of 3,000 miles in less than six hours.
In broken French with a heavy Russian accent, the Azeri pilot requested instructions for parking the aircraft and unloading the Azeri state broadcasting crew and all its equipment.
Six large white Volkswagen Crafter vans were unloaded from the plane on rails, each of them pulling what looked like a generator or a large equipment trailer in its wake. Each vehicle also flew a large flag belonging to the Islamic Republic of Azerbaijan, and bore the inscription “Republic of Azerbaijan State Broadcast Network” on its side in Azerbaijani, Arabic and French.
The cars lined up, with the drivers waiting inside.
A short time later, a black Mercedes sedan led the vehicles belonging to the border control officer and the customs officer to the plane. Arik was the first to disembark, descending down the jet bridge stairs and shaking hands with Joe Amar and his deputy Momi Castiel, who were waiting below.
“When did you return to Morocco?” Arik asked Joe.
“Three days ago. We received authorization from the king’s bureau. I think Kadiri’s not aware that we’re back here. For the time being, we’re sitting in with the French delegation headed by your friend Michel.”
“Right, I know,” Arik smiled.
Amar walked over to the local state officials and introduced himself in fluent French as chairman of the Broadcast Union of the Islamic Republic of Azerbaijan, arriving to cover the inauguration of the Grand Mosque the next morning.
‘Authentic’ documents were produced, lists were compared, an envelope of cash in appreciation of the “excellent service” was handed by Joe Amar to the local officials, and soon, the fifty Azeri passports belonging to the “technicians and crew members” were stamped, and the procession set out, headed by Momi Castiel, Joe Amar and Arik in the black Mercedes.
The first van sported a giant collapsed transmission antenna and was camouflaged as a production and broadcasting trailer in order to conceal its designation of serving as a command shelter, monitoring and surveillance station when necessary, as well as a powerful electronic warfare center. It also contained an array of cameras and directional microphones for surveillance purposes. Large metal cylinders on the roof of the control vehicle enabled monitoring and surveillance of any device emitting radiation, from cell phones, security vehicles, ambulances and police cars, to broadcast stations.
The command shelter was the pride and joy of the Office’s Technical Division, and its clones were stationed in the parking lot of every major Israeli embassy in the world for operational purposes. The shelter had won its inventor an Israel Defense Prize.
Arik sat down next to Joe Amar in the Mercedes, staying silent. He could feel the taste of adrenaline in his mouth. It had been quite a few years since he was a fighter in the field while in the naval commando, and later as commander of the Mossad’s Kidon Unit. Last night, and during the long flight, he could not fall asleep. The diversionary flight from Israel north to Turkey and from there to Morocco had gone smoothly, but his mind was currently seeking flaws in the plan that he himself had approved. He was a risk management expert. His brain operated on a mix of maximum focus, life experience and concentrated thought, maturing over decades of operations absolutely required to yield results. Now he touched his waist, feeling the new toy that had taken the place of his Glock 21 service weapon, left behind in Israel. The new gadget, a Steiner ceramic gun with plastic hollow-point bullets, was concealed in an armpit holster installed within a Level IV thin ceramic flak vest, which was supposed to stop even armor-piercing bullets.
As the procession entered through the rear gate of the Grand Mosque, the sky had assumed a bronze hue, and the Atlantic Ocean was peaceful.
The sun began setting slowly in the west. Although summer was nearing its end, Casablanca was still hot and humid. The fresh air of an evening breeze wafted off the Atlantic Ocean to cool the air. They were greeted by a frenetic commotion. International television crews tried to jostle for a better position with the organizers, elbowing others and attempting to use bribes.
“Stay in your vehicles. Don’t move,” Joe Amar commanded over the encrypted communication system and headed toward the event management office along with Momi. Arik observed with a smile as, once again, envelopes were handed over, smiles and hugs exchanged, and a representative of the royal family pointed out a prized central position for the Azeri broadcast network.
Chapter 75
The Palace of King Hassan the Second, Casablanca
The lavish reception was held in honor of the entourages of the presidents and dignitaries arriving from all the Arab countries in the evening before the inauguration of the Grand Mosque. The only reason why Arik left the site of the journalist and media stage in the Grand Mosque, currently being set up, was to gather intelligence. He wanted to see with his own eyes whether the king’s lookalike had arrived, or whether the plan had changed, and the real king was currently at the palace, as well as whether Abdelhak Kadiri, head of security services, would be there, and whether Prince Mohammed Fouad Al Mansouri would show up for the reception.
An hour before the cocktail party to welcome the dignitaries at the king’s palace, Arik was watching the camera footage in ‘Azeri TV’s’ command shelter as Joe Amar’s black Mercedes was seen stopping, with Momi Castiel disembarking from it along with a woman holding a large makeup case.<
br />
He went out to meet them.
“I came to set you up with a new face,” Momi smirked.
An hour later, an older Arik Bar-Nathan left the secured zone near the mosque. His hair was now silver, he wore thick eyeglasses, thin brown contact lenses camouflaged his gray eyes, and a set of dentures in his mouth changed his natural expression. A cushion was attached to his body, making him look much stouter. A badge identifying him as head of the Azerbaijani Broadcast Corporation was his entry pass to the reception.
Arik picked up a small glass of what turned out to be cold apple juice from a silvered platter. No alcoholic drinks were being served at the cocktail party. The reception was populated solely by members of the male sex; there were no women present in the crowd.
Arik’s eyes darted in every direction, seeking the king. He was nowhere to be seen. In a corner of the room, he spotted Abdelhak wearing his general’s uniform, huddling with Prince Mansouri. He did not know the rest of the conspirators, and therefore could not assess whether the plan he had presented to Admiral Lacoste some time ago had been carried out or not.
He froze in his spot when he noticed the president of Azerbaijan, Nursultan Babayev, with his office manager, Dato Georgi Zerekidze. They were standing and chatting with the crown prince of Bahrain. He passed less than a foot from Georgi and glanced at him, plucking the badge bearing his name and title from his lapel and tucking it in his pocket. Georgi looked back blandly, utterly failing to recognize him.
The tapping of a large ceremonial cane on the breathtaking marble floor directed the attendees’ attention to the herald, who cried out, “His Majesty King Mohammed the Sixth, twenty-third king in the Alaouite dynasty. King of Believers in accordance with the tradition of the Holy Quran.” The members of the King’s Guard, dressed in traditional garb, bowed deeply. Two massive doors covered with plates of hammered gold opened, and the king strode into the hall, wearing an elegant European suit. Arik spotted Louis-Pierre, who was a head taller than the king, standing right beside him. Among the king’s bodyguards, surrounding him like bees buzzing around their queen, he noticed several who had European features.
Prince Mansouri approached his younger brother the king, bowed down in a show of respect and kissed his hand. The king walked on, his expression indifferent, waving his hand in a gesture or blessing of sorts, as government ministers and local dignitaries also bowed down in reverence to kiss his hand. Kadiri stood at attention to salute the king, holding the hilt of the golden sword secured to his leg.
The king paused next to the entourage of the king of Saudi Arabia, giving Arik an opening to approach Louis-Pierre. He drew closer, but was immediately blocked by two burly Frenchmen.
“I need to talk to Louis-Pierre,” he whispered to one of them in French. The French guard looked at him suspiciously, eyed the badge he had returned to his lapel, and scrutinized Arik’s body from head to foot.
“And who are you?” the Frenchman asked, constantly scanning the area behind Arik to make sure he was not being distracted from an impending attack.
“Tell him on your hidden mic that I’m the man whose life he saved in Dar El Beida. He’ll understand.”
The goon spoke into a tiny microphone affixed to his palm, and Louis-Pierre turned back, bemused. He signaled one of the burly guards to take over for him, approaching Arik with a curious expression.
“Louis-Pierre, it’s me,” Arik Bar-Nathan whispered.
Louis-Pierre examined Arik’s face with a surprise that was a testimony to the success of the makeup he was wearing. “I don’t want to ask when and how you got here, but according to what I know thus far, no one in the Moroccan or French security forces knows you’re here,” he said in amazement.
“Admiral Lacoste facilitated the return of our station manager and his deputy to Morocco three days ago, along with your people, coordinating directly with the king’s bureau. They’re working from your station, under Michel. I think they went over Kadiri’s head. He’s still mad at us since I managed to slip away from them.”
Louis-Pierre expressed no surprise. Anything was possible in Morocco when you had the right kind of support.
“I don’t want to bother you. The fact is, we’re here. I thought we should conduct an operational coordination,” Arik said, glancing around cautiously.
“I want to remind you that this is our playground, as agreed upon with Lacoste. I don’t want to see even one Israeli soldier tripping me up tomorrow,” Louis-Pierre said gruffly, darting apprehensive glances in all directions.
“This isn’t a good place to talk. Moroccan security services are recording us and monitoring us right now,” Louis-Pierre whispered, covering his mouth with his hand in case he was being observed by cameras from above. He looked back at the king’s entourage, which had moved on, pausing next to the president of Tunisia.
“Louis-Pierre, my friend, you’ll recognize us at the ceremony tomorrow. My entire team will be wearing the tricolor of the Republic of Azerbaijan: green pants, red jacket, pale blue shirt, and a yellow tie embroidered with Azerbaijan’s flag, the white crescent and star. You can’t miss us.”
“With those colors, you’ll be as visible from afar as Amazonian parrots,” Louis-Pierre snickered. “I assume you’d prefer not to answer the question how the president of Azerbaijan would react if he knew you were here, dressed up as Azeris?”
Arik smiled and did not reply. Georgi, the president’s office manager, had taken care to inform the president that a crew from his TV network would be present. Arik had promised that his team would constantly be shooting footage of President Nursultan Babayev, while someone else along the way would make sure that the Israeli communications satellite Amos, which provided satellite services to Azerbaijan, would broadcast the ceremony live to the studio in Baku.
“That sort of visibility is exactly what we’re aiming for. Please update your people that we’re an allied force. I have a command shelter at the end of the indoor courtyard in the mosque. Please come meet me there during the night. I’ll give you one of my short-wave devices. I don’t suppose you’ll give me one of yours, right?”
“I have to get going,” Louis-Pierre growled. “I’ll come see you during the night. I want to emphasize once more that the agreement was that you would only serve as a backup force. I have a sufficient force and logistic provisions on the air carrier Charles de Gaulle, opposite the coast of Casablanca, as well as forty combat aircraft and attack helicopters waiting in the wings. You guys are entirely redundant, in my humble opinion,” he said rigidly, turning back.
Arik turned to leave the reception hall. As he was sitting down in the Mossad’s black Mercedes, the Chameleon in his pocket rang, displaying a Parisian number.
“Hello, my friend Louis-Pierre,” Arik said in a friendly voice, assuming Louis-Pierre had needed to put on a show for the cameras and surveillance equipment, and was now calling from his French cell phone.
“Monsieur Bar-Nathan, this isn’t Louis-Pierre, it’s Admiral Lacoste…” Arik heard Lacoste yelling to him from a very noisy location.
“How are you, my friend?” Arik asked. “What’s that noise?”
“I’m in a helicopter taking me from Paris to Orly Airport. I assume I’ll see you tomorrow morning in Casablanca on the big day?”
“Yes, of course. But I don’t understand. This evening I saw the general here, and his friend the prince, and they looked very cheerful.” Arik tried to inquire diplomatically what was going on. “Is there a change of plan?”
“Everything’s under control,” Lacoste tried to soothe him.
“I don’t understand. Is it going down according to the action plan you confirmed?” Arik asked, concerned.
“Not exactly. But due to the insecure line, I won’t go into more detail. I’m sure you understand.”
Arik tried to figure out his meaning.
“On the other hand, I�
��m sure you’ll be happy to hear I received the package you sent me,” Lacoste said exuberantly. “After reading the material, I headed straight for the proper authority, and after he took a look at the material, he immediately called the president of the republic, who gave us authorization to immediately arrest the subject of the information for fraud, treason and breach of trust.”
“The truth is that I didn’t have time to go over the material myself,” Arik said. “I assume it was seriously explosive.”
“The guy is rotten to the core. He took advantage of his status with us to stick his finger in every possible pie.”
“I was really surprised that a man from a low socioeconomic background who receives a middling pension from the army and a government salary was living in a luxurious apartment in Paris’s Fourteenth Arrondissement,” Arik said.
“Say, do you have a file on me, too?” Lacoste asked, sounding amused.
“Let’s not start airing dirty laundry here. And it’s not like you don’t have files on everyone.”
“I’ve got to go,” Lacoste said. “We’re landing. Let’s talk later.”
Chapter 76
Hassan II Grand Mosque, Casablanca
The silhouette of the Grand Mosque was visible from afar, and the light of the full moon cast a pale luminescence on the colorful, finely wrought porcelain stones covering the large minaret. At the tip of the minaret, a blue laser beam shone brightly, pointing east, toward the holy city of Mecca.
Arik had removed the heavy makeup intended to conceal him from prying eyes at the reception held by the king for the delegate heads. He was now sitting in his command shelter, contemplative.
He knew he was in hostile territory. He would have no opportunity to restock, and no backup force would be swooping in to rescue him. Furthermore, if he were to get in trouble, no one would claim responsibility. He called the commander of Digital Fortress at Mossad HQ in Tel Aviv and asked for one of the unit’s teams to transmit, seemingly from Marseille, the agreed-upon code to the terrorist cells. The command was signed by “Harb al Islam,” Kadiri’s codename. The green light for launching Operation Prophet’s Messenger had been given and confirmed.