by Nathan Ronen
“What’s new about that?” Arik mumbled.
“What’s new about it? That this time, the American president approved selling strategic weapons on an immense scale: aircraft, aerial defense systems, missiles, munitions eliminating IDF’s quality advantage in the Middle East. And this is all in violation of the law that Congress signed. And you know the most amazing part? That our friends in the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations were asked by the Prime Minister’s Office to do nothing about it. Our embassy and military attaché personnel were also told to keep their mouths shut and keep a low profile.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not sure I’m getting it.”
“That moron made a reckless decision that hurt the security of the State of Israel because of this whim of speaking before the Senate. And when the president of the United States retaliated, he suddenly realized he was the one responsible for this fiasco, and decided to lay low and not piss off the White House anymore, so he instructed everyone to shut up and activated the military censors to deal with this whole thing, claiming it’s a sensitive subject pertaining to national security.”
“That’s a really high price to pay for a pathetic elections engagement,” Arik agreed. “But that’s his prerogative as a policymaker. There’s nothing corrupt here. At worst, it’s carelessness or political stupidity, a sort of March of Folly.”
“But that’s not all. The American president was so mad that he forgot all his American manners. My friend, the director of the FBI, recently signaled that I should come talk to him about topics that are of interest to both of us, and I’m supposed to travel there in a week and receive more proof from the FBI. I’m assuming they were instructed by the powers that be to prepare material for me. The moment I have incriminating material, I intend to set up a private meeting with Ehud Tzur, place that incriminating material in front of him, and give him the opportunity to resign in a dignified manner.”
“That’s it?” Arik wondered. He recalled the French approach to justice, avoiding scandals within the political echelon and blurring the evidence. Rage surged within him. “Excuse me if I tell you that my bullshit detector just leaped into the danger zone. What does what you’re telling me mean? That we let him go home without being charged and maybe convicted in court?”
“Don’t worry. I’m counting on him not accepting my offer. Tzur’s weak spot is his power: the promises, threats and blackmail that will protect him. I’m assuming he’ll try to sic the attorney general that he himself appointed on me. And if they use censorship to suppress my evidence, with the claim of ‘protecting national security,’ I’ll take the material straight to the editor of Israel’s most popular daily newspaper, and I’ll give him everything.
“If he can’t publish it, it’ll all be passed on to the German Die Zeit and to the New York Times, and then all the Israeli newspapers can quote it from foreign sources.”
Arik was amazed by the sophistication of the plan conceived by Cornfield, and wondered who else was taking part in carrying it out.
“You should know that Ehud Tzur and the Prime Minister’s Office are using the Hegelian Dialectic on the public.”
“What?” Arik asked, astonished and disbelieving. Cornfield, once a coarse bully, was using philosophical terms?
“It’s actually quite simple. This is Arthur Schein’s specialty. They create a problem, propelling people to panic and look for someone to suggest a solution that they wanted people to support in the first place. A solution that only serves their agenda. Tzur and his team don’t want people to understand what they’re doing. This spin of fake news and disinformation is intentional, and it’s always brilliant. They’re inventing a sort of fictional truth for the people, weaving a web of lies intended to make people fear a war with Iran, or loss of control in response to threats from surrounding countries. And it works. The entire tribe comes together around a leader who projects confidence. And then the leader finds a solution for them in order to calm them down.”
Arik gazed at his former commander in admiration. There had been plenty of bad blood between them in the past. Patience had never been Cornfield’s strong suit. But his life experience had taught him well. From a coarse man with a military Prussian-style upbringing and a cruel wit, he had become a reasonable man, one who studied, assessed risks, and focused on his goal, capable of waiting for the right moment to strike—a mature person.
“Do you want me to come see you along with Alex and meet the gatekeepers? I’m sure some of the other heads of divisions have plenty of material to give you regarding the use of classified intelligence materials that Galili asked them to prepare to serve Tzur’s buddies.”
“Maybe after I come back from the States,” Cornfield said. “I’m leaving tonight. I have a few meetings scheduled with people who wanted to discuss what’s been happening lately within our security agencies.”
They parted with a warm hug.
Arik felt encouraged. The senior gatekeepers were still defending the country’s values. Cornfield had proven to be like a phoenix rising from the ashes.
From his car, Arik texted Galili: “Per your request in our conversation immediately after the operation in Morocco, I’m taking an extended unpaid leave of absence. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to the Prime Minister’s Office in Jerusalem to give him the invitation to visit proffered by the king of Morocco, and to present my full report on Operation Dialena. If you want to come along, my meeting with Ehud Tzur is scheduled for nine a.m.”
* * *
50 Essential Elements of Information
Chapter 86
Ben Gurion Airport, Israel
Two weeks after Ben-Ami Cornfield left for his meetings in the United States, he returned from his trip, limping heavily through the jet bridge leading from the El-Al plane to the interior of Terminal 3. Before he arrived at the border control station, two men approached him and displayed badges identifying them as employees of Israel’s General Security Service, also known as the Shin Bet.
“Mr. Cornfield, please join us for a short inquiry,” one of them said in a chilly tone.
“Do you know who I am?” Cornfield said, attempting to control his temper.
“As far as I’m concerned, you’re a returning resident, and your name is Ben-Ami Cornfield. I have a job to do, and we’ve been asked to escort you to an interrogation before our boss, head of the Investigation Division.”
“Wait a minute, are you arresting me to be interrogated, or bringing me in for a preliminary inquiry?” Cornfield asked firmly.
“I was asked to bring you in for a preliminary inquiry, but if you resist, we’ll inform you of an arrest for interrogation purposes.”
“Do you have a warrant signed by the attorney general? Because officially, until the end of the month, I have immunity as Mossad director.”
“I happen to have a copy right here,” the young man said, presenting him with an arrest warrant signed by the attorney general. Cornfield’s name was listed at the head of the page.
A shiver ran down Cornfield’s spine. He had no doubt that the long arm of Prime Minister Ehud Tzur was reaching out to stir things up behind the scenes.
Cornfield wanted to use his cell phone to call Uri Dinur, who was waiting with Amira outside the terminal, but the Shin Bet agent took it from him without asking his permission.
Life in Ben Gurion Airport did not come to a standstill in light of the unusual drama in which two Shin Bet agents were arresting the former head of the Mossad Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations for interrogation. The arriving passengers walked past them, hurrying to secure their spots in the endless lines before the border patrol agents’ stations.
“Do you know Uri Dinur?” Cornfield asked.
The man did not react, and began walking, gently shoving Cornfield in an attempt to cause him to follow.
“I’m talking about the previous head of the Sh
in Bet, your boss. He’s waiting for me in the Arrivals lounge. I just want to let him know I’m going to be late,” Cornfield said.
The agents did not reply, taking him to a room with a sign over its door stating, “The Ministry of Agriculture—The Authority for Supervision of Plant and Animal Import.” In the empty room, a handsome man of forty or so was waiting for him, rising to shake his hand.
“My name is Ronen Tal, and I’m head of the General Security Service’s Investigation Division. It feels strange that you and I are in this position, but you’re being accused of espionage, fabricating evidence and perhaps treason as well.”
Cornfield could not hold back and let out a loud, nervous burst of laughter. “This reminds me of how you falsely arrested Yicha51 on the same accusations,” he said mockingly. “Do you know he ended up publishing a memoir called Mr. Nothing Squared?”
Ronen Tal did not react, examining Cornfield with the cold gaze of an interrogator.
“You’re not serious, are you? Do you have evidence, or are you just trying to frame me?” Cornfield’s body language remained relaxed, and did not reflect the pressure he was beginning to experience.
“Let’s say there’s an accumulation of evidence against you for the activity you’re conducting with elements within intelligence and law enforcement agencies in the United State, without proper authorization or approval.”
“Tal, my new young friend. You’re the same age as my son, and I’m telling you here and now, I’m not mad at you. But you should call your higher-ups and tell your new boss that I’m going to beat Ehud Tzur because I don’t work in the shadows. I work in cleansing daylight, because it’s only there that truth can thrive. All those looking to take me down were dumb enough to think they could beat me through intimidation. It would be stupid of you to underestimate me.”
“I certainly know who you are. You’re an Israeli hero, an IDF major general who was wounded in action, and you’ve made an enormous contribution to the country’s security.” He looked at Cornfield to see whether the flattery had achieved its aim. He was an expert in using ‘good interrogator/bad interrogator’ techniques. “And although I’m certainly not underestimating you, it’s important for me to note that I have a job that’s been assigned to me.”
“You really scared me good. I’m so frightened I’m about to start crying…” Cornfield imitated Tal’s intonation. “All of your Shin Bet techniques will turn out to be worthless considering the major media blitz that will take place when they find out I’ve been arrested while returning from a business trip to the United States.”
The seasoned investigator was not impressed.
“If you search me or my little travel case, you won’t find a thing. Everything I had to bring with me, every piece of evidence and every fact, is already in a safe location where you can’t put your hands on it.”
Ronen Tal said nothing, and in the ensuing quiet in the room, it was almost possible to hear his mental gears spinning at record speed.
“You know I don’t need this shit,” Tal said. “So why don’t you cooperate with me? I don’t feel good about any of this, either. Let me do my job and we’ll put together a report that’ll cause those guys at the top who are putting pressure on us to shut up. What do you say?”
Cornfield chuckled. “If you think you can play the good investigator and your buddy can play the bad investigator, apparently you really don’t know whom you’re talking to. I’ve eaten investigators like you for breakfast thirty years ago. Don’t think that just because you’re dealing with an old, lame, half-blind, diabetic man, all this causes even a faint flutter in my left ball. You’re probably convinced that at my age, everyone’s senile, and you’re the only smart one in the room. Well, then, let me tell you what’s going to happen in the next few minutes, and don’t say I didn’t warn you. Because the moment all hell breaks loose, someone up the ranks will get really scared and look for a scapegoat, and the first one to get tossed out on their ass will be you.”
Not a single muscle wavered in Tal’s face. He was good.
“Your former boss, Uri Dinur, is waiting for me in the Arrivals hall, and if I don’t arrive despite being on the roster of passengers who boarded the plane, he’ll call your boss and ask what’s going on. Your boss Shlomo Toby can’t say he doesn’t know. And if I’m not out of here within half an hour, all our material is being sent out tonight to be published in tomorrow’s press, including the arrest of a former Mossad director for reasons of political persecution. You must realize that would guarantee a major headline in any global media outlet, right?”
Tal shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“I hope it’s also clear to you who’s going to lose the election, because all of this evidence is going to put a lot of people in jail, people who are your boss’s bosses. But your boss is only going to remember that you were the one who arrested me. And with all due respect to you, Mr. Ronen Tal, head of the Shin Bet’s Investigation Division, I hope you understand that you’re just the poor flunky standing watch at the gate here.”
The head of the Investigation Division rose from his seat. “Excuse me, I need a bathroom break,” he said. A few minutes later, he was back, saying simply. “You’re free to go, sir, on authorization from the head of the agency, Mr. Shlomo Toby. I apologize for the slight inconvenience you experienced. I hope you understand it wasn’t personal.”
Cornfield snorted at him dismissively. He left the room feeling glum and dejected. In the Arrivals lounge, Uri Dinur, the previous head of the Shin Bet, was waiting for him impatiently. “What happened? Where did you disappear for two hours since you landed in Israel? You couldn’t call and tell me you lost a suitcase?”
Cornfield filled him in.
Uri Dinur was furious. “Let me call someone and tell him what I think of what they did here.”
Cornfield heard as Dinur screamed over the phone at his former deputy, Shlomo Toby, now the head of the agency, finally saying, “I understand. That’s perfectly all right.” Dinur hung up, explaining: “Toby received instructions from above to arrest you and try to incriminate you, instructions he didn’t approve of, and so he decided to release you, and if necessary, resign from office amidst a major fuss that no one really wants.” Uri Dinur signaled Cornfield to stay quiet. “I want to check whether they stuck some kind of transmitter or a GPS tracker on you. I don’t have the technological proficiency to do it, but I know where we’re going.”
In the Ness Ziona industrial science park, north of the Weizmann Institute of Science, they entered the offices of the IFSG Company, owned by a former head of the Mossad’s Technology Division, currently the CEO of a major high-tech company specializing in cyberwarfare, surveillance and tracking technology. Cornfield was stripped of all his clothes, down to his underwear. His clothes and the entire contents of his luggage were scanned and found to be clean.
“You’ve achieved success in life,” Cornfield told Rafi Korabelnik, the CEO, clapping him on the shoulder. “But what’s the deal with the acronym you used to name this company of yours? I bet it’s your wife and kids’ initials—am I right?”
Korabelnik laughed in embarrassment.
“Not at all. My father, who knew I worked for the Mossad, was quite a joker. He talked to me mainly in Yiddish, and would always introduce me to his friends as a manager of the ‘Foyle Schtik Geschaften Company,’ a Yiddish saying meaning I work on GMG matters.”
“I’m Bulgarian, I don’t speak Yiddish,” Cornfield grumbled.
“Okay then,” Dinur intervened with a chuckle, explaining, “International Foyle Schtik Geschaften or IFSG means ‘illicit international business,’ and GMG is ‘gurnischt mit gurnischt,’ which means there was nothing there and there won’t be anything anytime soon.”
“I don’t get it…” Cornfield said with an earnest expression. Korabelnik and Dinur exchanged glances and started to laugh.
In the elevator, Dinur asked Cornfield eagerly, “Where’s the material?”
“In my prosthetic leg. There’s a flash drive containing all the material in there, within a sealed compartment made of rigid tungsten. It includes fund transfers, photos of donors giving Geula cash, and statements from the secret bank accounts that Galili keeps in Geneva and under the names of Tzur’s children. In short, enough material to bury him and that son of a bitch who replaced me.”
Dinur was elated. He was already envisioning the press conference that would expose their enemies. He knew he had to convene senior political journalists and newspaper editors, all carefully screened, for a conversation.
Like Cornfield, Dinur was not one for small talk. Both of them were not eloquent speakers, but rather practical men who had achieved their roles through competition, battles and jobs on the ground. The emotional aspects of things never bothered them. Compassion and feelings had no place in the Mossad or the Shin Bet. It was a cruel business in which only the best and the brightest could survive.
They had simply underestimated Tzur’s survival skills in this game of chess. He was a politician who had refined the art of the possible throughout many years at the outskirts of the political realm.
* * *
51 Brigadier General Yitzhak (Yicha) Ya’akov, the former head of IDF’s Research and Development Division, was arrested upon his return to Israel and accused of revealing secrets without authorization with the intent to harm national security.
Chapter 87
The Prime Minister’s Office, Jerusalem
Arik almost didn’t recognize Geula the office manager. She had changed her hairstyle, lost about twenty pounds, and her cheap clothes had been replaced by an elegant suit. Arik could have sworn she had also depilated her facial hair, and straightened and whitened her crooked teeth. She looked radiant, happy and calm. Arik did not notice her small pregnancy bump.