by Nathan Ronen
He entered Tzur’s office and found Galili there, staring at him intimidatingly.
“Welcome back, Arik. I heard from Galili that our entire force returned home safely. Way to go.”
“All the credit should go to the chief of General Staff and his people, who assigned their best forces to me, and of course to the French president. I was just conducting the band,” Arik said humbly, looking directly at the prime minister and ignoring Galili. “Sir, I wanted to convey the king of Morocco’s request to coordinate a visit to Morocco by you and your wife, as a tribute to Israel’s combined efforts with France to save him.”
A broad grin appeared on Tzur’s face. The elections were imminent, and the invitation could serve him well, especially in light of his humiliating defeat at the hands of the president of the United States due to the sale of the sophisticated munitions to Saudi Arabia, a development he had suppressed via severe military censorship.
“I also want to announce I’m taking an indefinite, unpaid leave of absence, and I want to thank you for the opportunity given to me to serve the country I love so much. At the moment, I’ve decided that the most important thing for me is to heal my family, currently in Germany.”
Arik presented the prime minister with a written report that he had personally typed overnight. The prime minister passed it on to Galili.
“Before I leave on my time off, I want to let you know there’s one more urgent action we need to take, concerning the ‘yellowcakes’ in Chad.”
Tzur turned to Galili, his expression clearly revealing he had no idea what Arik was talking about.
“I’m not sure I quite understand,” Tzur said.
“During our preparations for the operation in Morocco, we uncovered two items of information. One was than Iman al-Uzbeki, the arch-terrorist that everyone was searching for in Afghanistan and on the border with Pakistan, was actually the commander of the assault force attempting to seize control of the throne in Morocco. The second, equally important matter is that we found out that the Iranians had purchased 200 tons of enriched uranium-235, professionally referred to as yellowcake, which they’ve hidden in a warehouse at the airport in N’Djamena, the capital of Chad. As far as we know, the Iranians are heading toward a memorandum of understanding with the Americans and Russians, in which they’ll commit to halting their efforts to develop nuclear weapons in return for removal of the financial sanctions against them. But we’ve received reliable information indicating this is merely a deception. After an inspection by the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) that will confirm they’ve gotten rid of the enriched uranium they’ve centrifuged, they’ll do anything to return the centrifuges and enriched uranium they need back to Iran, in order to bypass European and IAEA supervision. They’ll hide them in a secret facility, apparently in Fordow, near the city of Qom. It’s the site of an underground uranium enrichment facility at a former Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps base.”
“If you’ve got the whole picture, how come I don’t know about it?” Galili asked.
“I asked that all the material be gathered for me as pre-operational intel, and knowing Alex, head of the Intelligence and Research Division, and Yoni Souderi, head of Tzomet, they reported it to you in briefings and at the division heads meeting, but you either didn’t pay attention or didn’t understand.”
Arik was not blind to the fact that this dig at Galili’s expense evoked a sadistic smile from Tzur, who was known as someone prone to creating conflict among others in order to increase his control over them.
“So who’s handling this?” Tzur asked Galili.
Galili shrugged.
“What’s our timeline and latitude?” Ehud Tzur asked Arik, surprising him by using operational terminology.
“The truth is, I have no idea, and it’s not my problem anymore. The person to handle it will be whoever replaces me. I’m out,” Arik said, leaving the room.
Epilogue
The City of Victoria, Seychelles, in the Indian Ocean
The beautiful suite in the Rose Gardens Hotel that Eva had booked for her small family provided a wondrous panoramic view of green islands dipping in translucent emerald waters. If there was a paradise on earth, this must be it. The hotel was located on a tall hill on the island of Mahé, the largest and most central in the archipelago comprised of 115 small islands. The mountainous, verdant island was also home to Seychelles’ capital, Victoria, the smallest capital city in the world.
Arik rented a boat and sailed along with two-year-old Leo to Cousin Island, a small, forested granite island housing tens of thousands of birds alongside giant turtles. Little Leo sat on his father’s broad shoulders, and the two of them roamed the island, feeding the turtles and splashing around in the clear water. At noon, he returned to the hotel for little Leo’s nap. The child had already fallen asleep in the boat, and Arik carried him to their room and poured himself a local tropical cocktail. He turned on the TV to BBC World News, watching the newscast with gaping eyes. A story from Morocco presented images of the conspirators’ corpses, hanging in Rabat’s central square. Kadiri’s small body was the first on the right, and could not be mistaken for anyone else. Dozens of enflamed Moroccans were calling our derogatory terms, spitting and throwing stones at the bodies. The image of the king, this time wearing a striped field marshal uniform, flashed on the screen again and again, with subservient generals submissively kissing his hand.
Eva returned, tan and ecstatic, from a day of diving. Unlike her first pregnancy, she was not experiencing any morning sickness, and was radiant. “I’m going to shower and sleep a little. I got us a babysitter for this evening, and I’m treating you to a Creole seafood dinner at the town market. They have amazing lobsters here. Then we’ll go dance on the beach a little. So maybe you can come nap with me?”
Arik had never been an afternoon nap kind of guy. But chasing after little Leo and the blazing sun on the island had worn him out as well. He joined Eva in the shower, soaping her body.
“I’m too tired, and I don’t want a quickie. Let’s wait till we’re back from the party,” she told him as she felt his hands roaming over her body.
They climbed into the large bed made of bamboo stalks, resting on green shale tiles, and Eva fell asleep instantly. About an hour later, as he was fast asleep, Arik’s phone rang. It was Louis-Pierre, who sounded exhilarated.
“Arik, my dear friend. I know you’re on vacation. I just watched the video that my former assistant in Morocco, Michel, brought me, and saw the details of the assassination attempt on the king, and your heroism during the operation, and I wanted to thank you for saving my life. You’re a true friend.”
Arik, still half asleep, told him: “You saved my life in Morocco, remember? So we’re even.”
“I also wanted to update you on some news concerning our operation in Morocco. Thanks to you, everything worked out exactly according to plan. Kadiri ultimately betrayed his friends, revealing the full list of conspirators and giving a detailed confession. Not that it did him any good. The Moroccans hung him right beside the other conspirators. I lived there for seven years, and I believe the Moroccans will toss their bodies into the dump, to be eaten by carrion birds. Prince Mohammed Fouad shot himself, sparing himself the humiliation of a public hanging.
“The king promised to renew diplomatic relations with Israel, and will upgrade the status of the Morocco station to an ‘interests section.’ And as for me, I’m about to be appointed as deputy director of the Special Operations Department. And it’s all thanks to you. Here’s a little secret: Admiral Lacoste has recommended to the president of the republic that you receive a Legion of Honor Commander-class decoration.”
“Thank you so much,” Arik said. “Please tell Admiral Lacoste it’s been my honor to work closely with you as allies and experience your high level of professionalism. If you want to bestow a commendation on me, I suggest you give it to the Israe
li Mossad Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, rather than to me personally. Please tell the admiral to invite the head of the Israeli Mossad, Major General Avigdor Galili, to receive the decoration as head of the organization.
“You’re a special person. Not many people reject the honor of receiving the French Legion of Honor decoration from the president of the republic,” Louis-Pierre concluded.
“Mon ami, thank you for calling to let me know,” Arik said.
He went back to bed, clinging to Eva’s sleeping body, gently embraced her rounding belly, and fell asleep almost immediately. Little Leo’s crying in the next room woke them up a short time later. They took him down for a child-friendly meal in the hotel’s dining room, where Leo’s babysitter was already waiting. The two of them had other plans for the evening.
In Victoria’s vibrant market, Arik and Eva sat at a bamboo table perched in the placid, warm water. A colorful candle was set on the table, and they ate seafood and delicious lobsters grilled on a coal barbecue along with antipasti vegetables, sipping a Petit Chablis white wine, a pale golden beverage with a wondrous acidity, the perfect complement to any seafood meal.
Eva looked gorgeous with a giant purple orchid tucked in her blond hair. She was thrilled to be in the company of her family once more.
“Do you see these coco de mer?” she pointed at the coconuts on the giant palm trees spread out along the beach.
Arik looked at them in wonder. The sea coconut fruit, one of the Seychelles’ distinct symbols, appeared different than any coconut he had ever seen. The male fruit resembled the male organ, while the female one was an embarrassingly accurate replica of a female sex organ, including the hair in precisely the right location.
“Did you know, meine liebe, that the locals believe that on nights when the moon is full, you can see the male fruit and the female fruit of the Seychelles coconut tree strolling on the beach, arm in arm? Anyone lucky enough to see them will never leave the island.”
The juicy lobsters, the excellent wine, the murmur of the ocean waves and the full moon all had their effect. Arik gazed at Eva in longing: the delicate smell of her perfume, her tan skin, serving to highlight her blue eyes and her blond hair blowing in the wind, her generous décolletage, barely containing her breasts, which had grown with the pregnancy.
“Should we find some little corner for ourselves and do what the coconuts do?” he whispered to her yearningly.
“Not before we properly do the Moutia52.”
“What’s that?” Arik asked.
“Obviously, you haven’t read any of the material I sent you on the Seychelles. It’s music typical of the islands, consisting of a variety of Indian, European, Chinese and Arabic sounds. The instruments featured in local music are accordions, banjos and violins, which blend in with the sound of the strings of the makalapo, a kind of local sitar, and the African drums.”
“Do we have to dance the Moutia tonight?” Arik whispered to her, nibbling on her earlobe gently and evoking a shiver that ran through her. “I was actually thinking of a whole different dance,” he continued his seduction, kissing the point between her neck and shoulder and hearing her moan.
“But I made reservations for us at the nightclub,” she tried to protest.
“Eva, tomorrow’s another day. We’re here for a week.”
Making out the whole way in the taxi, they drove back to their hotel room, and dismissed the babysitter.
Leo was sleeping like an angel, and Eva went into the shower to wash the ocean sand off her feet, when the phone rang.
“Arik, I hope you’re not in the middle of anything,” he heard Cornfield’s low bass voice. “I wanted to let you know that we received an urgent invitation to Ehud Tzur’s official residence after we sent him the file with the documents, along with an ultimatum letter demanding unequivocally that Galili resign. I wanted to know how you’d feel about us suggesting to him that you take on the role of Mossad director?”
“Me? I’m definitely flattered, and grateful, but I need to think about it. How did Prime Minister Tzur react to your ultimatum?”
“We’re having some differences of opinion with the attorney general, who’s already far from thrilled, and that’s an understatement, about prosecuting Tzur. The evidence provided by Geula, the Prime Minister’s Office manager, is enough to allow her to turn state’s evidence, but she and her lawyer are unwilling to expose all the incriminating material and testimony before the state attorney commits in advance to providing her with a sum of money, a handsome pension arrangement and immunity from any future prosecution. So we’re in a bit of a legal jam dealing with Ehud Tzur, who’s a pretty crafty lawyer himself, as you know.”
“Geula… turning state evidence? I can’t believe it,” Arik said, amazed.
“Okay, we just arrived at the prime minister’s residence in Jerusalem. Expect to get a call from me within the next hour.”
Arik sat down on the bed, stunned. He hadn’t expected such rapid developments. He called room service and ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne and an ice bucket.
Intending to join Eva in the shower, he took off his clothes and sidled in beside her. Eva turned around and handed him the soap. He had just begun to lather her back when the phone rang again. Arik abandoned the bathroom, running to the phone with only a towel covering his loins.
“Hi Arik, this is Major General Ami Oren, the prime minister’s military secretary. I hope it’s not too late where you are.”
Arik knew there was no point asking how he had managed to locate them.
“Prime Minister Ehud Tzur wants to talk to you.”
A dull click preceded the prime minister’s familiar voice. “Arik, how are you?”
“Great,” Arik replied automatically.
“Have you heard the good news from Morocco? The king’s decision to renew diplomatic relations, the official reinstatement of the Mossad station and the invitation extended to me to come to Morocco with my wife?”
“I did,” Arik replied laconically. He knew the prime minister had been informed that all of these developments had resulted from Arik’s own efforts.
“I just had a little conversation here with some veterans of our security agencies, including our friend Cornfield. He presented me with indisputable facts pointing to Izzo Galili’s involvement in illicit business while he was serving as Mossad director, as well as inappropriate use of confidential information in service of wealthy associates.”
Arik was appalled as he listened by the way Tzur managed to twist every situation, trivializing or magnifying it in accordance with his needs.
“We’re having a little argument here about some materials they think might allegedly incriminate me too,” Tzur said casually, “relating to funds I collected for the elections from various donors and organizations abroad. And whether it’s in accordance with the Election Act or not. I assume the attorney general will say there’s room for various interpretations here. The previous prime minister was also cleared of allegations of violating the Campaign Finance Law, and claims that a large part of the organizations were merely fronts. But that’s not why I’m calling you…”
Arik stayed silent, merely listening.
“Arik, are you there?”
Arik hummed in response.
“I told our friends here that I’m guilty of not listening to them when, at the time, they fiercely opposed Galili’s nomination, and they were right. In light of the documents presented to me, I don’t want to find myself in a situation where my opposition aligns itself with Galili, suddenly portraying him as a saint solely out of a desire to harm me. They’re such hypocrites, these leftists.”
The agility with which Tzur moved between the facts and fake news stunned Arik, leaving him speechless.
“To make a long story short, it’s been decided that Galili needs to go home, and I’m looking for a
replacement. Your name has come up. What do you say?”
At that moment, Eva emerged from the shower, her tan body clad in a terrycloth robe. As if mesmerized, Arik gazed at her swelling breasts. She chuckled in response and their eyes met. She shed the robe, smiling at him. Suddenly, he saw her as the goddess Venus, rising from the clamshell in Botticelli’s famous painting.
“Hello? Are you there?” the prime minister said.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll consider it and get back to you,” Arik said, focused upon the face of his beloved, smiling at him seductively.
“Who was that on the phone?” Eva asked. “Work?”
“It wasn’t important,” Arik said, sweeping her into his arms.
Eva giggled, embracing Arik. For the first time, she felt the gentle flutter of the baby girl in her womb.
End
* * *
52 The Moutia is a local dance on the Seychelles.