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

by Dov Alfon

  To: Commander

  From: Leader of Team Two

  Urgency: Immediate

  Att. message transmitted 20:03, Paris police radio network. Decrypted: listener no. 56. Edited: translator no. 3;

  The 9th arrondissement police station seeks instruction from Commissaire Léger pursuant to a phone message from the security officer at Le Grand Hôtel on Scribe Street regarding a suspicious guest. The security officer has been collaborating with our station for many years, we believe his warnings have a high level of credibility. The guest in question, one Vladislav Yerminski, is an Israeli who did not present a credit card upon checkin, and who may have entered France on the same El Al flight from which missing person Yaniv Meidan was abducted this morning. According to the hotel’s electronic sensors, the guest is still in his room, but is not answering his door or phone. The deputy officer at the station asks whether he should send a squad car to look into the matter, or whether the investigations department will handle the query directly. Out.

  It was almost too good to be true. She checked the location of Erlang Shen, the only one she could truly count on, and saw that he had reported finishing handling the man and was moving on to the blonde bait. She hesitated for a moment, but time was of the essence and she did not have the luxury of choosing the best people for the task. As often happened at critical moments in the organisation, waiting for the best could lead to the worst outcome. She quickly typed:

  To: Leader of Team Three

  cc: Leader of Team Two

  From: Commander

  Urgency: Immediate

  Leader of Team Three to send all available warriors to Le Grand Hôtel. If necessary, he is authorised to second xiake from Teams One and Two to assist. The objective is to locate the reel. If it is not found in the target’s luggage, the target must be brought to Le Bourget airport for questioning per earlier instructions. If circumstances prevent such action, the target is to be eliminated; prior authorisation will not be required. Leader of Team Three to confirm mission completion.

  Her ribs arrived at the table, done to fat-dripping perfection. The gods, in their infinite wisdom, must have chosen to shower her with luck, prosperity and success.

  Chapter 64

  The police car sped along the hard shoulder of the autoroute to Paris’ Porte de la Chapelle, where it was forced to slow down due to the traffic in both lanes. The driver finally managed to enter the city courtesy of the wailing siren, and turned into boulevard Malesherbes. At the instruction of the senior officer who sat next to him, he turned off the siren after entering the city, and now the car was crawling along the dim boulevard. Throughout the ride, in the back seat, Abadi did not raise his head once.

  He was immersed in the marvel his commander had given him, a new kind of smartphone with tracking capabilities, the brainchild of 8200’s technology centre. Code-named “Navran”, the communication device was the fastest he had experienced and it came with its own encryption system. The video was sharp and stable even in the dimmed light of the car.

  But most important of all, the device operated on its own network, it was independent from Aman’s central proxy server and Rotelmann’s nosy intelligence operators. Navran 001 was represented by a blue dot now showing the head of 8200 taking off from Charles de Gaulle. He would be unreachable for at least four more hours before angry orders from above might force him to halt the investigations of his new, unpredictable head of Special Section to whom he’d given Navran 008.

  Oriana’s device, Navran 012, had not been connected to the network. He typed her name into the search field. The Navran located her civilian mobile number in the unit’s database and ran a trace. Her phone had been switched off for the past hour and its last cellular signal, sixteen minutes ago, had been sent from the hotel strip on the coast of Herzliya. He asked himself what she could have been doing in a hotel. He didn’t have an answer.

  Outside, it started to drizzle, causing the windows of the police car to fog up. He opened the window closest to him and breathed in the air. Lonely pedestrians rushed along the boulevard in every direction. How was it that his first investigation upon returning to service in Tzahal was taking place in Paris, a city which he had never seen as a new beginning for anything? The car slowly turned left and he noticed the Madeleine church. Which girl had he kissed on its steps? Which woman had he deceived in one of those buildings? Everything would be so much simpler if he could walk the streets of this city without constantly hearing echoes of his past steps and glimpsing ghosts over his shoulder.

  The police radio suddenly came to life.

  “The Commissaire is asking how soon you’ll be bringing him in.”

  The sergeant held the microphone and did a quick calculation. “Half an hour at the outside.”

  “So hurry up. All kinds of developments here.”

  Abadi opened his eyes. He felt a familiar pressure in his chest, as if in preparation for unwelcome news.

  “What developments? Tell him I want to talk to Léger,” he said, leaning forward, ready to snatch the radio in the event of a refusal. But the sergeant complied.

  “The client is asking what developments. He wants to speak to the Commissaire.”

  Two minutes passed in radio silence. The darkness that had engulfed the ride suddenly lifted when the car catapulted, as if from a cannon’s dim mouth, into place de la Concorde, which twinkled with thousands of bright, buoyant lights. Abadi’s eyes were fixed on the silent radio.

  The Peugeot was travelling along the Jardin des Tuileries when the driver’s mobile rang. He glanced at the screen and, without saying a word, passed the telephone to Abadi.

  “Colonel Abadi, so kind of you to take an interest, I thought you’d forgotten about us.”

  Abadi tried to guess from Léger’s voice what new information might have come in. The Frenchman sounded alert, almost cheerful, but Abadi kept his response as matter-of-fact as possible. “Commissaire, if there have been any new developments, I hope you’ll share them with me?”

  “And why not, Colonel? After all, you have always disclosed your own information to me, haven’t you?” It was not a question, and Abadi did not answer it.

  “Very well,” the Frenchman said, tiring of his own game. “What do you want to hear first, the bad news or the really bad news?”

  “Whichever you prefer, Commissaire.”

  “Then first of all, officially, we have two more corpses linked to the case. The second Chinese commando was found in the river, near my office in fact, behind Notre-Dame. And you’ll be happy to know that the sewage treatment plant called, and the body of your countryman, Yaniv Meidan, may have been found. Boudin says the corpse is in reasonable condition and should be easy to identify.”

  The news was hardly pressing and Abadi sensed more was to come. “That would be a matter for the representative of the Israeli police,” he said. “But if there are any additional developments, then—”

  “Indeed there are,” Léger said, interrupting him, and he tried to contain the sudden excitement in his voice. “It’s possible that we have found your other Israeli, Vladislav Yerminski. That’s to say . . . we haven’t actually found him because he isn’t answering his telephone, but we have theoretically located him.”

  “Where?” Abadi sat upright in his seat. The exhaustion he had felt only moments previously was gone. He focused on the commissaire’s voice as if he could alter the policeman’s answer through willpower.

  “Le Grand Hôtel,” he said. “It’s an exclusive hotel and we didn’t even think to search it. Yerminski checked in early this afternoon, and the indications are that he is still in his room, though he’s not answering the door.”

  “Commissaire, please, I ask you, send police cars over there at once.”

  “We are not even allowed to approach him, I checked with the juge d’instruction. To our knowledge, your man has not committed any offence. I have asked the hotel security officer to knock on his door, and if he still doesn’t answer, t
o try entering with his master key under the pretence of concern for a guest. But we’re not permitted to be there.”

  “I am allowed,” Abadi said, and it was his turn for animation. “Commissaire, this is extremely important.”

  Léger sounded almost grateful. “Well, Colonel, of course, if you felt that you wanted to drop in on this historic landmark hotel,” he said, “there would be nothing I could do to stop you.”

  For the first time, Abadi sensed a note of genuine warmth from the Frenchman and he met him in the silence between them over the radio. “Commissaire, I have been released after an official arrest by the French police and I think I’d like to be taken to my hotel,” he said. “I’ve heard good reports about the one on rue Scribe.”

  “You are absolutely correct, Colonel. I believe I have heard them too.” Léger hung up, and almost immediately his voice could be heard across the radio again.

  “Take him to Le Grand Hôtel, rue Scribe. You’re accompanying him inside, but only unofficially. You have authorisation to turn on the sirens.”

  Apparently the driver had been waiting for the order, because he instantly made a wild U-turn, and the car was swallowed into the courtyard of the Louvre with blasting sirens and screeching wheels.

  “Where’s rue Scribe?” Abadi said.

  “Near the Opéra,” the sergeant said, as if he never imagined that a person with a colonel’s rank would ask such a simple question. “Where the phantom from ‘The Phantom of the Opera’ lives, if you’ve seen the musical.”

  “I haven’t,” Abadi said, trying to expel the dark thoughts that enshrouded him. “Please tell me it has a happy ending.”

  “What’s a happy ending?” the sergeant asked. “From my experience, one person’s happy ending is another’s sad.”

  Before Abadi could reply, the driver took a left turn against the traffic into place de l’Opéra and came to a screeching halt by the entrance to the hotel.

  “After you, Colonel Abadi,” the sergeant said.

  Chapter 65

  The huge desk was made of a massive piece of pine that only the very best craftsmen would know how to fashion. It had electrical sockets elegantly concealed on every side. Those present rushed to charge their mobiles. The Prime Minister’s Military Secretary was not sure which was the best seat at the table, but as the room filled up, he finally sat down with his back to the door.

  At the last minute, the meeting had been relocated from the Prime Minister’s office in Tel Aviv to the Minister of Defence’s office next door, perhaps due to the number of participants who kept pouring in. Among those in uniform, he recognised Aluf Rotelmann, the Tzahal spokesperson, the head of the Mamram Centre of Computing and Information Systems, and the head of the technology department. All these men were accompanied by their assistants, bureau chiefs and secretaries. In addition to the Military Secretary, all four strategic advisors from the Prime Minister’s office were present, as well as the official spokesperson who was accompanied by the Ministry of Defence’s spokesperson. The Prime Minister himself had as usual sent a message that he would be late and that they could start without him.

  A man more naïve than the Military Secretary might think that he had been summoned to an urgent meeting to bring all parties up to date on the abduction in Paris. But he knew who he was dealing with. And indeed, once the lights had been dimmed, it turned out that the Tzahal spokesperson’s presentation was to be about the billionaire Saul Wenger’s forthcoming visit to Israel and his tour of Tzahal.

  “We’ve planned three different visits for him, after the last plan –” and here the Tzahal spokesperson shot a glance at the Military Secretary – “was deemed unfit.”

  The Military Secretary took care not to respond even with so much as a glance, and concentrated on taking notes. Men take note of a man who takes notes, anyone who had ever tried to survive in a bureaucratic organisation knew that, especially someone who had been serving as Military Secretary in one of the most conflict-ridden periods in the history of the general headquarters.

  And so the Military Secretary jotted down the suggested itinerary for the guest. The first stop would be to the induction centre, and include “heartfelt encounters”, as per the Tzahal spokesperson’s prophetic definition; the second stop would be to the Hatzerim airbase, a suggestion that was copied and pasted from the itinerary he himself had submitted; and the third day would focus on the future technology of Tzahal, and include visits to the three top-secret bases: the Mamram Centre of Computing and Information Systems, the Computer Service Directorate, and the Technology Centre of Unit 8200 of the Intelligence Corps.

  The Military Secretary continued writing. When he had finished, the Chief of the Intelligence Corps, Aluf Rotelmann, was the first to respond.

  “I don’t think we can authorise a visit, as big a supporter of Israel as the guest may be, to a Unit 8200 base.”

  “We’ll settle the details between us tomorrow,” the Prime Minister’s Chief of Staff said. “I just wanted to clarify that his next gift is for Tzahal technology, so it’s important that we show him what we’re doing.”

  Aluf Rotelmann’s voice sounded distant, almost aloof. “His next gift, like his previous gifts, is for the politicians. Only a fraction of his philanthropic efforts, which are of course admirable, goes to Tzahal. I suggest we be very cautious.”

  The Chief of Staff was indeed cautious, as he proved right away. “It’s precisely for that reason that I’ve asked the Ministry of Defence’s legal advisor to join us today.” And sure enough, the Military Secretary spotted the lawyer – whose nickname in the corridors of power was “the steam iron” thanks to his ability to straighten out any matter – seating himself at the head of the table.

  True to his image, “the steam iron” accepted the floor with a display of reserve. “I would first like to say that I’m here in an unofficial capacity, since there’s no need for legal advice in the matter you’re dealing with. The Prime Minister, who, as you know, also serves as Minister of Defence at the moment, asked me through his Chief of Staff to provide a little background, which is indeed required, judging by the question that was just raised here.”

  So many words, the Military Secretary thought, so many words and such a hollow legal introduction, essentially void of meaning, and yet the echo it created conveyed an unambiguous message. When had the law started permeating every facet of the military? When had lawyers started being summoned to staff meetings at headquarters? He could not remember when, since today it seemed so natural.

  “What I would advise here, if I were asked to advise – and as I said, that’s far from being the case – is to apply sound and just discretion. Let us remember an important legal principle under Israeli law, the ‘Buzaglo Test’: one law for a respectable citizen and the same law for Buzaglo. Put another way, if a poor Mizrahi Jew like Buzaglo has rights, a billionaire friend of the Prime Minister shares those same rights.”

  “I don’t have to tell you about Uncle Saul’s staggering contribution to the nation, to the economy and to Tzahal in particular,” said the office’s political advisor, who sat at one corner of the table.

  “It would be cynical, verging on a hypocrisy that contradicts the values of our country and would certainly not hold up to legal scrutiny, to discriminate against Herr Saul Wenger on the basis of his political opinions, which are nothing if not enthusiastic towards Zionism and the State of Israel,” the legal advisor concluded. “I thank you for listening, and hope my words were understood in the spirit in which they were intended.”

  Was there some other way to understand his words? The Chief of Intelligence was being asked, in effect, to comply with the office’s demands, even if it meant closing his eyes, covering his ears, and perhaps holding his nose.

  The lawyer got up to leave without waiting for a response. Rotelmann did not react. He was immersed in the messages on his secure mobile, typing away with growing irritation. It was impossible not to think about the drama being played out
in Paris. The Military Secretary badly wanted to be updated, but he could not think of a way to pose the question elegantly in such a broad forum.

  The Tzahal spokesperson sat quietly and seemed to be waiting for something. And indeed, the door opened once again, and the Prime Minister entered the room. How convenient, the Military Secretary wrote in his notebook, how convenient – officially, he had not witnessed any discussion regarding the renowned benefactor’s visit. “Hello, everyone, don’t get up,” the Prime Minister said briefly, and grabbed the chair that had just become available at the head of the table. “You’ve worked out everything without me and I can leave, yes?”

  Affected chortles rose from all around the table. The Chief of Staff cleared his throat. “We’ve built an excellent itinerary with the help of the Tzahal spokesperson and the rest of the participants here, Mr Prime Minister. We have only a few technical details to finalise tomorrow, but it’s clear that it’s going to be a very successful visit.”

  “Excellent, excellent,” the Prime Minister said and changed the subject, as if Saul Wenger’s visit was not his top priority. “And what about this affair in Paris, will that have a successful ending too?”

  His gaze travelled from one participant to the next, until it came to the Military Secretary.

  “Our best men are working on it, Prime Minister. God willing, it will end successfully, absolutely.”

  The political advisor intervened with an amused tone. “And if God is not willing?”

  “Then in that eventuality I don’t know,” the Military Secretary said with a serious expression. “You can’t achieve any success if God does not will it.”

  Aluf Rotelmann looked up from his telephone screen and, facing the Prime Minister, replied, “We’re confident we’ll wrap up this matter tonight.”

  The Prime Minister nodded, giving the impression of someone trying to think of a joke to lighten the mood. Failing to pinpoint one, he got up and took leave of the participants with a round of handshakes.