by Nathan Ronen
At eleven p.m., he heard a knock on the shelter’s door. Louis-Pierre came in, accompanied by three French army officers, all wearing their combat uniforms and bearing HK assault rifles with a collapsible stock, with pistols holstered at their waist. “My friends and fellow fighters,” Louis-Pierre told his people, “I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. You don’t need to know his name, and he’s here by authorization of the president of the republic and Admiral Lacoste. Let’s say he represents a country that would benefit from the terror cells being stopped here and now. It’s been agreed that he and his people will stay behind the scenes and won’t interfere in the military operation tomorrow, unless we ask him to do so. Am I right?” Louis-Pierre turned to Arik.
Arik replied in fluent French: “We’re here impersonating a TV crew from Azerbaijan. All of us will be spread out in various corners of the Grand Mosque, wearing flashy clothing. All of our team members are trained in commando warfare, all of them are equipped with personal weapons, and they’re instructed to allow you to take action, unless they’re being shot at, in which case they shoot to kill only at those who are shooting at them. At the moment, we’re only aware of three terrorist cells, and I understand that you already took care of the stashes of their ammunition that were located in their hiding spots, right?” Arik asked.
“We did,” Louis-Pierre said, “but I suspect that was just misdirection. They left us a few old weapons and some rusty grenades. I think there might be more. Our munitions experts scanned the walls with metal detectors and didn’t find anything. I don’t know where they could have concealed more weapons, grenades, and maybe RPG grenade launchers.”
Arik unfurled the maps of the mosque and its surroundings. “As far as we know, one cell will dress up as Moroccan security personnel, or blend in with them. They’re supposed to trigger the explosion of the mosque’s main minaret, causing it to collapse. The moment the masses begin fleeing toward the exits, the cell will start firing at the congregation from the galleries, tossing grenades to make the human swarm change direction and burst into the mosque itself to seek shelter. All of the Arab world’s VIPs, including the king, will be inside the mosque, and their bodyguards will fight off the panicked crowd.
“In the second phase, the moment ambulances and emergency response vehicles are called in, another cell is supposed to go into action, attacking the rescue personnel by setting off lethal IEDs and a car bomb outside the main site. The VIPs’ bodyguards will keep them inside the enclosed area, which is seemingly safer than the outside, where a deadly terrorist cell is roaming, but they’ll be impeded by the crowd fleeing in all directions.
“According to our information, that’s the moment when a third cell is supposed to arrive by sea, using rubber speedboats. Once it arrives, it’ll clear an opening for itself with a massive shooting spree, in order to infiltrate the closed mosque. Once inside, they’ll verify the killing of the king and his people, and maybe also abduct VIPs for negotiation purposes, fleeing with the hostages by sea to south Morocco, in the direction of the Polisario,” Arik concluded.
“We’re familiar with that plan; we call it Operation Caracal,” Louis-Pierre said. “We’ll be assembled in the mosque as worshippers, and outside it, in the surrounding streets, hidden in trucks already parked on the sidewalks. Our naval commando units will lay ambushes in the direction of the beach, and open fire on any cell that tries to break in from the sea.
“I personally will be right next to the king, with his bodyguard team,” Louis-Pierre added.
“Gentlemen, let’s examine this from a broader perspective. Managing a complex operation of this sort requires central command and control. Who’s going to command it? Kadiri himself will be sitting next to the minister of the interior, Prince Mohammed Fouad Al Mansouri. How will they both ensure that they don’t get hurt in the chaos when the shooting is going on?” Arik asked.
“What are you implying?” queried Louis-Pierre.
“I’m implying that the force commander will be Iman al-Uzbeki, a major arch-terrorist. He’s currently al-Qaeda’s subcontractor for this operation. If we manage to pinpoint his location, we can also neutralize him. Does your air carrier have the capability of launching a predator assault drone that’ll explode on him?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t think of that. But if you’ve got any intel, alert me. If worst come to worst, we’ll send a swift attack helicopter in his direction,” Louis-Pierre said, obviously embarrassed.
“I’ll try to locate him from the control shelter, but I think you should activate your existing surveillance system to search for someone who’s located behind the scenes and managing the entire show, like an orchestra conductor. Meanwhile, Kadiri and Prince Mansouri are sitting in the front row, meaning someone will be there making sure they remain unharmed, but anyone around them, especially the king and anyone protecting him, might be a target.”
Louis-Pierre exchanged glances with his people, who had been caught by surprise. They had thought they were dealing with a routine military operation, but had not considered the twist of cutting off the head of the snake hidden somewhere and managing the entire operation.
“I know the head of our Operations Division came to brief your people on this.”
The expressions of Louis-Pierre and his men indicated that the information had not filtered down to the team actually on the ground.
“I have a solution, and tell me how this sounds to you,” Arik told the French team. “Our tactical shelter, in which you’re sitting at the moment, is in fact an operational command center, with the capability for monitoring transmissions as well as initiating electronic warfare, which means I can block any attempt to transmit or intercept any device within a kilometer from here, other than immune devices, like the ones we have here. So I can disrupt communications between the conspirators’ cells and their commander, which will make it easier for your French force to neutralize them.”
“That’s an excellent idea, but how do I communicate with my forces if you’re blocking me?” Louis-Pierre asked.
“I’ll give you a spare set of our two-way radio, but then the French operation commander will have to sit with me in my command shelter,” Arik said, “so that he can control the battlefield through the multiple cameras we’ve stationed all around, as well as preventing bilateral friendly fire between our forces.”
“I’ll be with the king,” Louis-Pierre said, “but I’m leaving Commander Jean-Jacques Lambert to sit here in the command shelter with you. I still don’t understand, though. How are you going to control your people?”
“I have a personal communication system that every fighter carries as backup, including an earpiece with a nano-transmitter hidden in the ear canal and connected via Bluetooth technology to a micro-transmitter attached to their belt. My fighters also wear sunglasses with a tiny hidden spy camera that transmits what they’re seeing to me.”
“I want one of those nano-transmitters and the sunglasses for myself, in case I need you,” Louis-Pierre said.
“No problem. There’s one more little thing,” Arik said. “I suggest you be in charge of the ground and naval front, and we’ll take on the height aspect.”
The French team looked at him, uncomprehending.
“I intend to station my sharpshooters tonight, concealed and camouflaged in the dropped ceilings that the lighting and sound systems were suspended from. The moment the spotlights for the TV cameras are turned on, anyone who looks up will be blinded, and won’t see my sharpshooters, who’ll be up there with the climbing, scaling and rescue team. Our sharpshooters are equipped with HK tactical M27 rifles.”
“That’s a great idea. But I ask that the command to open fire come only from me or from Commander Lambert,” Louis-Pierre concluded.
“Okay, but there’s one more tiny thing before we wrap it up,” Arik said gently, trying not to steal the show from Louis-Pierre. “I think the ter
rorists will be wearing the most sophisticated type of ceramic bulletproof vests. You should instruct your forces to aim only at their heads; otherwise, we won’t manage to defeat them.” He gave Louis-Pierre the secret transmitter used by Kidon fighters, and showed him how to insert the tiny earpiece transmitter deep inside his ear. The transmitter was powered by electricity derived from a battery running on body heat.
“There’s no microphone here?” Louis-Pierre marveled.
“The earpiece recognizes the vibrations of your auditory ossicles, allowing them to act as an amplifier for the vibrations that create sounds on the eardrum, both for hearing and for speaking.” He added the transmitter, about half the size of a matchbox, to Louis-Pierre’s belt.
“Turn it on when you get to your command center and call me. We’ll run a speech trial, and you’ll be amazed by the quality of this device.”
Louis put on the glasses and immediately saw his surroundings projected onto the screen in the command shelter. He laughed like a child receiving a toy he had yearned for on Christmas Day.
Several unresolved questions were still spinning in Arik’s mind: had the French president talked to the king? Had Admiral Lacoste had the time to turn Kadiri against the prince? How would they catch Iman al-Uzbeki?
He was left alone in the command shelter. Outside, his people guarded the shelter, hiding their plastic Steiner guns under their suits.
Tomorrow, the inauguration of the Grand Mosque and the day of battle were set to commence. Arik wanted to talk to Eva, perhaps to convey parting words before the battle, and perhaps to tell her how much he missed her. But the communication security procedures that he himself had enforced prohibited him from calling anyone who might expose the Israeli fighters.
He powered on a computer, surfed the web and googled her name, glad to see an image of her pretty face and her abundant hair appearing to him on Wikipedia. He noticed an article stating that Eva had been elected by the Dutch government to receive the Queen’s Medal of Honor for her research on the Jewish Dutch philosopher Baruch Spinoza, called “the philosophers’ philosopher.” The ceremony was to take place in two days.
Arik wanted to be there by her side when she received the prestigious award at the queen’s palace. His heart went out to her and to his child. However, at the moment, he had to focus on carrying out his mission. His fighters’ lives were in his hands, and the immense responsibility bore down heavily upon him.
Chapter 77
The Battle at the Grand Mosque in Casablanca
Arik woke up at dawn and went to wake up Joe Amar, who was sleeping in the Mercedes, rolled up like a hedgehog in a sleeping bag. The snoring of his deputy Momi Castiel sawed through the interior of the vehicle.
“What’s going on?” Joe Amar asked, all sleepy.
“I’m making myself some good coffee. Get up and come join us. I want a word with you.”
Arik returned to the control shelter, produced a coffee-making kit from his duffle bag, and turned on the mobile gas range with its whistling blue flame. He filled two-thirds of the aluminum kettle with water, added two heaping tablespoons of Turkish coffee with cardamom along with two heaping tablespoons of sugar, and waited for it to boil. Joe Amar stood and observed this ritual, enjoying the aroma of the coffee rising from the kettle while reciting his Shacharit (morning) prayer. Arik extracted four glasses from the kit and went to wake Jonathan, who had also spent the night on a folding cot in the command shelter.
Like most of the delegate heads and guests, they had reserved rooms in the exclusive Casablanca Grand Mogador City Center Hotel, but Arik preferred to stay onsite and keep his eyes open.
“Friends,” Arik said, “I need to know in real time what our rivals are up to. Tactical intelligence tells me that Iman al-Uzbeki will be running the operation, but I don’t know who his local collaborators are. It could be one of the security services commanders. I don’t know if we’re talking army, police or firefighters.
“Joe, like we agreed in the command shelter in Haifa that day, take two fighters with you, and go hunt down a newer-model police cruiser. Monitor the police band closely. Mostly, I want to know where the head of the snake is. The moment you hear him, record a voice sample of Iman al-Uzbeki, and try to activate a GPS navigation app on your Chameleon that’ll indicate his geographical location in real time as accurately as possible. The moment you have the data, transmit it to me ASAP, and I’ll try to send out a combat helicopter or a predator drone to eliminate him, through Commander Lambert or Louis-Pierre.”
Joe nodded and stepped out. Jonathan followed him out, instructing two Kidon warriors to join them in the command shelter.
Arik turned to Jonathan. “It’s time to spread out onsite. We don’t have long before the ceremony begins. You should go wake up your people. Hope everything goes well today. I ask everyone to put on their fancy Azerbaijan Broadcasting Network suits, including nametags and passports on hand. Behave normally, playing it cool, with your Steiner plastic guns well concealed in your shoulder pouches. The metal detectors won’t react to them. Ensure that your Tavor rifles are well hidden within the cloth covers of your TV cameras, which have been stationed in their positions since last night. I want to emphasize one more time that you don’t draw them unless you’re being shot at. I hope we get through this day without one Israeli soldier even sustaining a scratch. We’ve already concealed the sharpshooter team on the ceiling last night. Best of luck to all of us.”
At nine a.m., the gates of the Grand Mosque were opened to the general public. The ceremony was conducted in a manner typical of third-world countries: shoving, yelling, cursing, and thousands of villagers who had arrived from all over Morocco using every possible means of transportation trying to attend the inauguration of the mosque despite the lack of an invitation. The attendees in possession of invitations had a hard time making their way through the angry mob. Ultimately, the signal was given to the helpless police officers, the barricades were removed, and a record-breaking hundred thousand people or so swarmed into the giant marbled courtyard.
On the other side of the mosque, in the secured area, processions of luxury vehicles arrived, accompanied by the wailing of police motorcycles. The dignitaries exited their cars, walking down a red carpet that led them to their seats within the lavish mosque. Only a thousand VIPs were invited to the prestigious ceremony. All of them marveled at the beautiful wood carvings and the artistic marble mosaic upon the mosque’s ceiling. The red and green wool rugs had been donated by the president of Afghanistan, who was also among the attendees.
At precisely 11 a.m., the sound of the royal helicopter was heard as it landed on a secured runway on the other side of the road, and the king’s entourage, including the king himself and his bodyguards, headed by Louis-Pierre, disembarked. The immense crowd yelled from afar again and again, “Yaish sidi Mohammed the Sixth—long live King Mohammed!” As they saw the king’s form waving to them from the giant screens installed onsite, their excitement grew. “Yaish sidi Mohammed the Sixth!” the enflamed crowd called out. The king was wearing a silk jellabiya with golden stripes and white babouche loafers, sporting a white fez with golden tassels on his head. As he entered the mosque, all of his guests rose as one.
Arik watched the proceedings from his command shelter. A series of split screens displayed the entire scene; occasionally, he asked his “photographer” to zoom in on certain locations or faces so that the facial recognition software installed in the command shelter could use the algorithms originating from distant servers to access a large biometric database comprised of the photographs of thousands of terrorists sourced from the “Best Friends” catalog housed in the Mossad’s basement. The automatic software scanned the feed, granting the highest priority to Iman al-Uzbeki’s face; however, none of the scanned features sufficiently resembled the suspect’s profile to warrant further investigation.
He easily spotted the French fighters wi
thin the mass of worshippers praying in the mosque’s large courtyard. They all had short buzzed hair and were tall and brawny, their jellabiyas covering their weapons and flak jackets. All of them wore beige Palladium boots.
He looked at Louis-Pierre standing behind the king, scanning his surroundings with a perturbed look, and whispered to him: “If you can hear me, raise your right hand.” Louis-Pierre, wearing the special sunglasses, raised his right hand, pointing with a smile at a figure in the front row. The camera zoomed in on it, and Arik saw Admiral Lacoste, head of the DGSE, wearing a light blue suit and a red tie, his white mane meticulously styled. He was chatting in an ostentatiously friendly manner with Kadiri and Prince Mansouri, who were sitting beside him.
Arik froze. Had the French decided to sacrifice the king and side with Prince Mansouri’s new regime?
The Grand Mufti of Morocco, wearing a large Muslim fez and a traditional outfit, climbed to the podium to greet the attendees: “Bismat Allah al karim—in the name of Allah the magnanimous…” Before he could complete his opening statement, a powerful explosion was heard from outside, and the steeple of the tallest mosque in the world collapsed with an immense sound, toppling onto thousands of worshippers who were avidly watching the video screens. The collapse of the minaret caused a temporary power outage, but the TV networks’ generators kicked into action immediately, and the cameras continued to broadcast the unfolding horror to the world.
The crowd began to retreat from the site of the explosion, fleeing back haphazardly, trampling each other in their panic. The hysterical screams and the cries of the wounded were deafening. Suddenly, grenades were thrown into the crowd, their source unclear, and people began running in all directions. French Special Forces soldiers, hidden in military trucks, shed their jellabiyas and leaped out, opening fire on the terrorists or on anyone who looked like a terrorist to them. The crowd changed the direction of its flight, with a giant stampede aimed at the main exit, climbing the stone and metal fences along the way. But then, a series of IEDs full of metal ball bearings blew up, accompanied by more explosive battle sounds. The hysterical crowd changed direction once more, trying to find shelter and to break into the secured area of the Grand Mosque.