A Long Night in Paris: The must-read thriller from the new master of spy fiction

by Dov Alfon

  “And what does he propose?” Abadi said, mainly to cheer himself up, because he knew all too well what the answer would be.

  “He always says we need much more force, that we’re too soft on them,” his mother said. Both knew that his father’s suggestions were more specific.

  “And does he already have a number in mind, so I can report it to general headquarters? What, we kill three million, six million, twenty million Arabs? How many does he suggest?”

  “You can laugh all you want,” his mother reprimanded him. When she was angry, she looked even younger than usual. “We grew up with the Arabs, your father and I, we know who they are and how to talk to them.”

  Then she froze, as if remembering something important. “The couscous! I left the soup for the couscous on the burner,” she cried and rushed back to the kitchen.

  “Maman, can I use the telephone? I need to call Israel.”

  “Does it have to do with the army?”

  “It has to do with the army.”

  “It would be a great honour for our telephone,” she called.

  Chapter 37

  She came out of the Saint-Augustin métro and crossed the boulevard without waiting for the pedestrian sign to change. A driver honked with rage, but she did not turn her head. Her blonde hair was concealed under the hood of her black sweatshirt, and, because of her height, it was easy to mistake her for a man.

  She walked until she reached boulevard Haussmann, number 89, where she was swallowed into the lobby of a building with the obscure logo “V.T.B. Bank”. She went to the cashpoint to check her bank balance from the branch in Moscow.

  The same news awaited her here, as clear and unequivocal as in the text she had received: four hundred euros had been transferred to her account an hour ago. She wanted to withdraw the money – the only effective way to combat the distrust that still surged inside her. The machine thought for fewer than thirty seconds before discharging the bills.

  Four hundred euros; it was by far the easiest money she had made since arriving in Paris.

  Light-headed, she left the bank and read the instructions on her mobile once more. She had to act quickly if she wanted the second half of the payment.

  She crossed boulevard Haussmann in the direction from which she had come, again without waiting for the pedestrian signal to turn, and walked quickly to Le Printemps department store. Despite her best efforts, she went in through the wrong entrance, and after a nervous search approached the information desk, where she was given a map and directions to the neighbouring building through the overpass. Hordes of tourists were browsing around her, many speaking Russian.

  Finally she reached the correct building and approached her objective, the special stewards’ stand. A handsome, diffident young man listened offhandedly to her request and asked for her I.D. She handed him a student card. He opened the cabinet under the desk and a moment later claimed they had nothing under that name. It was the price one paid in this city for wearing a tracksuit. At her insistence they looked again, and the coveted bag turned up; it was bigger than she had expected. In accordance with the plan, there were two boxes inside, each tied with a silk bow and bearing the reassuring stamp “paid”.

  Ignoring the steward’s offer to call her a taxi, she turned towards the side exit. Within four minutes she found herself standing in front of the monumental facade of the Gare Saint Lazare. She dashed down the stairs to the train station’s basement and found the lockers on the right.

  Number 703 was a small locker on the right-hand wall. She punched in the code and the door opened. The gun gleamed at her from inside like a jewel. “The world’s deadliest semi-automatic”, the instructions she had received stated. It was lighter than she had expected, and had a shiny gold-plated handle. She hid it at the bottom of the department store bag, and then picked up the manila envelope awaiting her in the locker. It contained a white, unmarked magnetic card in a cardboard keycard holder from Le Grand Hôtel. In neat handwriting was the information: room number 5508, guest name Vladislav Yerminski.

  It was 4.58 p.m., Monday, April 16.

  Chapter 38

  Aluf Rotelmann was in a sombre mood, as he always was when he returned from the office in Jerusalem. Zorro tried to think of a way to lift his commander’s spirits, but like everything else he had tried today, it did not go well.

  “It’s possible that it’s a coincidence, that there’s no connection between these things,” he eventually said.

  Aluf Rotelmann stared at him with a blank expression. “It’s possible. It’s possible there’s no connection. It’s also possible that everything will just work out on its own, that someone from the future will travel here in a time machine and fix all the damage you people have caused.”

  The adjutant wanted to protest.

  “I chose the two of you as my confidants,” Aluf Rotelmann said. “Besides the Prime Minister, ten people know about this threat to our intelligence sources, and I chose you two to lead the mission on my behalf. Perhaps the most sensitive mission I’ve had since my appointment, and I chose you to execute it. It’s impossible to tackle this type of danger through the usual channels with so many threats from inside and out. And here we have it, when it finally happens, it turns out you’re completely unprepared. You’re on the ropes and you have no idea what hit you.”

  “We’ve managed in the meantime to gather the basic facts,” his adjutant said cautiously.

  “So what are the basic facts?” Rotelmann’s voice was as cold as a slaughterhouse.

  Oren lowered his gaze and read off the page: “Sgan Aluf Shlomo Tiriani was in charge of information security in Unit 8200 for six years. When the decision to establish Special Section was made, following the conclusions of the investigation committee it was only his title that changed, and he was appointed head of Special Section. But formally, something did change, because from that moment he was subordinate to the command of the Vice Chief of Defence Staff, in accordance with the decision to make the new section autonomous.”

  “And when did she join?” Aluf Rotelmann said.

  “They’d worked together for a year, but she was appointed even before Tiriani got the job. The Vice Chief of Defence Staff chose her based on her commanders’ reviews, and of course on the basis of all the cases she’d cracked. The Unit 8200 commander approved her appointment to Special Section’s deputy, and we received a copy of the appointment letter.”

  “And you didn’t bother showing it to me? It seemed no more than a boring letter to you?”

  “It wasn’t important at the time,” the adjutant said. “We hadn’t been asked to build the operation yet. I didn’t even know Tiriani and we never talked about that section. It was one appointment letter out of dozens we received.”

  “When was Tiriani thrown out and why?”

  “Two days ago Sgan Aluf Shlomo Tiriani was summoned to the office of the Vice Chief of Defence Staff. Military policemen came to pick him up from Special Section in their vehicle, and Tiriani did not have time to notify anyone, not even us.”

  “And then?”

  “A special military police investigator was waiting for him there, and in the presence of the Vice Chief of Defence Staff, he informed Tiriani that he was suspected of embezzlement and of conduct unbecoming to an officer. It seems that Tiriani had changed his address in the administrative department, reporting that he had moved to Kiryat Shmona. On those grounds, he was entitled to monthly reimbursements for rent and for a hotel room in Tel Aviv on weekends. In reality, the apartment in Kiryat Shmona belongs to his brother, and he himself continued to live in exactly the same apartment in the outskirts of Tel Aviv.”

  “Well, so what? He’s the only person in Tzahal to con the housing department?”

  “No, but the Vice Chief of Defence Staff informed him that owing to his sensitive role, these offences, which had been going on for three years, were unforgivable. He gave him a choice: immediate discharge while keeping his pension or standing trial.”
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  “And he chose the discharge.”

  “Yes, he went straight to the induction base from there, and underwent a quick release of funds process. He was told that he couldn’t talk to anyone about this, no matter how high-ranking, because the investigation was ongoing and it could be regarded as obstruction of justice.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Segen Oriana Talmor was appointed temporary standin. This morning, as in less than twenty-four hours later, the Vice Chief of Defence Staff notified the Unit 8200 commander that, from now on, the role of head of Special Section would be carried out by an officer with the rank of aluf mishne or above, and he decided to appoint Aluf Mishne Zeev Abadi, who was about to be released from service following his testimony in favour of the conscientious objectors.”

  “That, we remember, thank you. How did he talk to the commander of 8200? That guy hasn’t returned my calls from this morning.”

  “We don’t know exactly. He left the States yesterday, we’re not sure on which flight. He could still be in the air.”

  “And how is it that Abadi just happens to be in Paris right now?” Aluf Rotelmann said.

  “It’s his discharge holiday. He was granted approval to travel to the CeBit Europe Fair.”

  “Meaning, he was on that same flight.”

  “Yes,” Oren said submissively. “He was on that flight. He was the first person who noticed Yaniv Meidan’s friends huddling together, he’s the one who called the embassy’s military attaché, and they sent over the representative of the Israeli police.”

  Aluf Rotelmann looked at them with eyes full of pity: “How did Zorro put it? ‘It’s possible that it’s all just a coincidence’.”

  Chapter 39

  Tomer sprinted from the administrative building of Unit 8200 to his commander’s office in a mad run, or at least that was her impression given his rapid panting when he knocked on the door. Oriana noticed that, at any rate, he was more flustered.

  “I think I’ve got it,” he finally managed to say, and handed her the printed personnel card.

  Oriana studied the form. Among the flight records Abadi had dictated to her appeared a passenger by the name of V. Yerminski. In the active personnel files of Unit 8200, Tomer had turned up a soldier by the rank and name of Rav Turai Vladislav Yerminski. He had been enlisted to the unit two years earlier based on his proficiency in Russian, attended a course at Intelligence Training Base 15, and in his first year was stationed at a front-line listening post in the Golan Heights with security clearance.

  And then, four months ago, he was transferred to the El Dorado department in the Central 8200 base in the Negev desert.

  Oriana’s heart stopped. If she had to estimate the potential damage caused by the abduction of a soldier from Unit 8200 according to the secrets he had been exposed to, the abduction of a soldier from El Dorado was the worst-case scenario.

  “Maybe it isn’t him?” she said in a hopeful tone that sounded rather pathetic even to her. “It isn’t a common surname, but it’s possible that somewhere in Israel there’s another person by that name. We have to check with the base if he’s there.”

  “No need,” Tomer said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve already asked the administrative department if they happen to have an up-to-date report on him, and they do. The base reported that he was granted a special ten-day leave that began yesterday.”

  “That doesn’t prove it’s him.”

  “The leave included permission to travel overseas. On the overseas leave form, the base is required to state the travel destination.”

  “Don’t tell me . . . ”

  “They wrote that he was going to Paris,” Tomer said.

  “Under what circumstances does an active soldier get a special ten-day leave?” Oriana wondered.

  Tomer had to admit that he was not sure. “On the base’s form they had to give a number to indicate the reason for the leave. They put down ‘05’.”

  “Rachel!” Oriana shouted. Rachel reported at the door as if shot from a cannon.

  “Yes, Commander?”

  “Please check what reason for leave number 05 means on the administrative forms.”

  “I don’t have to check, Commander, everyone knows that. Leave 05 is an authorisation for wedding leave.”

  “Why would a soldier need ten days to attend a wedding?”

  “It’s not just to attend a wedding, Commander. Attending a wedding only gets you a one-day leave. Leave 05 is if the soldier himself is getting married. It’s a wedding holiday. The soldier who’s getting married brings the relevant forms and is automatically entitled to ten days off. His commander can’t object. Same goes for women in the ranks.” Rachel sounded like someone who had spent many hours memorising military leave orders.

  Silence prevailed while Oriana absorbed the information. Rachel did not dare return to her post. It was Tomer who finally broke the silence.

  “But what does that have to do with an overseas travel authorisation?”

  “If the soldier is getting married abroad – for instance, in Cyprus – then he also receives permission to travel overseas,” Rachel recited the orders.

  “We’re talking about a soldier of Unit 8200 who’s serving in a department that has a top-secret purple clearance,” Oriana said. “Are soldiers like him even allowed out of the country?”

  “Depends where to,” Rachel said. “There’s a whole list of countries they’re not allowed to travel to up to five years after their discharge from the unit. He can’t travel to Russia, for example, but . . . ”

  “But he can to France.” Oriana completed the sentence for Rachel.

  “But if he’s getting married in France, he’s allowed to travel to France,” Rachel confirmed.

  “And if he’s kidnapped in France, what do we do? Explain it to me, since you seem to have answers for everything today. What do you do when he’s kidnapped in France?”

  “What’s the problem?” Rachel said. “Abadi’s there, isn’t he?”

  “That’s a load of nonsense, Rachel. So what if he’s there? He’s not James Bond, he’s Abadi. Get me El Dorado’s network intelligence officer on the secure line.”

  Chapter 40

  Her instructions were to wait in front of Le Grand Hôtel until the opportunity to slip in unnoticed presented itself.

  There was no good reason to take such precautions. The gun was at the bottom of the bag. She was wearing a tracksuit, like many tourists in Paris. The giant shopping bag completed the appearance of a foreign guest at a large hotel. But it would be a severe setback to lose the second payment of four hundred euros just because of a bored security guard asking to see her guest card.

  After a few minutes a taxi pulled up to the entrance and a family of blondes like her got out, all carrying impressively large shopping bags. She crossed the street in time to blend in with the family while the doorman held open the door. The security guard stared in their direction before returning to his own affairs.

  She followed the family to the lifts, waited while they entered one, then summoned another. Alone in the lift, she pressed the button to the second-floor convention centre, “Salon Opéra”.

  The floor was deserted. She admired the heavy curtains, the marble sculptures, the crystal chandeliers and other objects that could have been pilfered from one of Catherine the Great’s palaces. She pulled herself together and made sure no-one was following her to the ladies’ cloakroom, which turned out to be nearly as lavish as the convention hall itself. Once there, she checked there was no-one in the cubicles.

  Pulling back the hood of her tracksuit top, she let her hair tumble over her shoulders like a golden house of cards. She set the Printemps bag on the marble floor and took out the gun, which was even more beautiful in the flattering lighting. She laid the two boxes from the department store on the marble counter around the sinks, and began to undress.

  Naked, she looked at herself in the mirror and succumbed to the temptati
on to take a picture. But she had no-one to send the picture to since she had no interest in getting entangled in a relationship at this stage of her life. When she saved up enough money for an apartment, she would start thinking about who was worthy of sharing such a gift.

  The smaller box contained a pair of red stilettos. The thought that she would get to keep them after it was all over made her almost as happy as the payment. In the larger box she found a red hotel uniform. She put her tracksuit and her trainers into the boxes and the boxes into the large shopping bag.

  She stood in front of the mirror in her elegant uniform and practised drawing the pistol. She took out her mobile to take another selfie. With all due respect to the strict instructions, it would be a shame if none of her friends got to see her like this, glamorous in red in the city of lights. She chose some filters, wrote in Russian “Just another boring day at the office”, and waited for the image to upload to Instagram. She got three “Likes” from her friends even before she had closed the app and turned off her phone. She put the pistol into the bag, opened the door and strutted towards the lifts to get the most important “Like” of the day.

  Chapter 41

  Rachel put through El Dorado’s network intelligence officer, but warned Oriana that he was refusing to talk.

  “This is a secure line,” Oriana said.

  “Maybe the line’s secure, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re not,” he said without concealing the disdain in his voice. On Oriana’s computer, the officer’s profile details read “Segen Eitan”. Dropping surnames was a new trend in the unit, yet another attempt by the the Intelligence Corps desk jockeys to emulate elite combat soldiers, and Lieutentant Eitan was no different.

  “I don’t understand,” Oriana lied.

  “I don’t have to answer your questions. If the head of southern command orders me to talk to you, I will, but even then you’ll have to come here,” Segen Eitan said.