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

by Dov Alfon

  Cursing Europe and the French in particular, Ming exited the building and went back to his limousine. It took him a moment to recognise his own black car among the others.

  This was the largest business terminal in Europe, if not in the entire world; it was also among the most expensive. At the executive area of Le Bourget airport, north of Paris, the exclusive business terminal for private planes, black limousines pulled over, one after the other, and the people who stepped out of them were those whose time was valuable enough to meet the club’s criteria: C.E.O.s of corporations, movie stars, Russian oligarchs, incognito heads of states, the average spoiled billionaire. No more than ten minutes passed from the moment they arrived at the building and the time their planes took off.

  And yet Ming couldn’t get the respect to which he was entitled. He shouted at the clerk and asked to see the duty manager, who turned out to be an even more impertinent woman. Both refused categorically to approve his flight, and when he resorted to threats, the manager even called the tower in front of him to make sure air traffic control understood that his request for take-off had not been approved.

  Eight hours. According to irritating French labour laws that was the compulsory time for pilots to rest after an intercontinental flight. Because his pilots had landed here from Macau via Frankfurt at 4 a.m., less than four hours previously, they would not be cleared to fly again before noon. He could fly the Boeing himself with his own pilot’s licence, but he would still be required to hire a second pilot. Ming had offered the manager a bribe which she had declined, her only suggestion being that he hire a French pilot from a list approved by the airport.

  Ming kicked his driver, who didn’t open the door fast enough. Inside the limousine, he plugged a secure modem into the console, which he then connected to a frequency mixer and to his mobile, a customised model the Xiaomi company had manufactured especially for him. He checked his messages.

  Ming read the surveillance report carefully. The only good thing He Xiangu had achieved before her death was to put a tail on Commissaire Léger, and it was clear that the French would lead them directly to Yerminski. “????,” the organisation’s book advised: “Watch the fires burning across the river.” Commissaire Léger was probably exhausted. Colonel Abadi was probably exhausted. Now was the time.

  Maybe the French airport staff were right, and his pilots were also exhausted. There was no point in fighting their laws, Ming realised, and there was nothing to gain from waiting with the precious Uher reel till noon. He sent an order to Erlang Shen, gathered his encryption devices and went back to the terminal to register his flight plan according to the rules. This time, his driver was quick to open the door.

  Chapter 106

  Sometimes a certain word – “betrayal”, “money”, “parents” – ignited within him an agitation bordering on pure rage, and then his eyes would become so bright that all one could see in his pale features were his fleshy red lips, moist from alcohol and sweat, which he bit and parted and twisted, then pursed and sucked in again and again, a heated argument with Yermi’s inner demons that Abadi read and tried to fend off without being able to speak their language.

  They sat on the high stools, oblivious to the people dancing around them in silence, loyal only to their soundproof headphones, deaf to the theories concocted by a soldier of Unit 8200 during his many endless night shifts, blind to the tragedy unfurling around them.

  “They’ve moved to after-party music,” the blonde updated them, and soon she was back on the dance floor. Yermi would look at her from time to time, between the whisky shots he ordered at an alarming rate.

  It wasn’t a confession, and certainly not a step-by-step reconstruction. Abadi was careful to keep him going while not encouraging the rant, if only to be able to report that he genuinely tried to bring him back to Israel safe and sound.

  “On Independence Day they organised a ceremony at the southern base, and invited all these successful 8200 veterans to speak,” Yermi said. “There was the guy that invented instant messaging, and the one who leads the secure communications sector, and the one who owns the patent for dynamic search, all of them now multi-millionaires. And all these people – ” his hands reached up towards the imaginary stage and the microphones and the generals and finally back to himself at the end of the hall – “all these people who get awarded medals and invited to light a ceremonial torch on Mount Herzl and lecture at expensive universities and sit on all kinds of boards and give advice to presidents and ring the stock market bell, what did they do that was so different from what I did?”

  “What did they do that was so different?” Abadi repeated, feigning horror. But he couldn’t deny that Yermi was right, that Unit 8200 was a club for the children of a tiny elite who took advantage of its secrets for their own good and greed.

  “I did just what they did!” Yermi squealed ecstatically, like a child who had managed to trip up his parents with an especially silly riddle. “I didn’t do anything different! They served in Unit 8200 and were exposed to interesting information which they sold abroad. The fact that it was technological information and not intelligence, and that instead of selling it for bitcoins they did it through a start-up exit, makes no difference. It’s the same thing. The same thing, apart from the fact that I live in the projects with my parents who don’t speak Hebrew and can’t just pick up the telephone and call a buddy who knows a guy in a venture capital fund. So I managed by myself, that’s all.”

  They were getting somewhere at last. “What do you mean, ‘managed by myself’?” Abadi said. “It just happened one night?”

  “No, it took me a lot of nights to work it out”, Yermi said, swallowing another shot. “When I first got to El Dorado, I didn’t ask myself any questions. I’d translate this Chinese guy’s entire conversations, e-mails, text messages, everything. I listened to him night after night. But after a while it was clear to me that he had nothing to do with nuclear equipment, or with Iran. He was in charge of the regulation of Macau’s casinos, and he took bribes from a cartel of the big casino groups there. So one night I just got bored with this long list of payments, and I summarised it, something like ‘Subject discusses bribe’ details.”

  Abadi could guess what was coming next. “The next morning, I was woken up by the senior network officer. He was furious and he ordered me to pick up and translate the entire thing, directly from the raw intelligence feed. I was not to skip anything, and certainly not the casino stuff. And suddenly Macau began to appear on The Most Wanted list. That was so ridiculous, but by now I understood what was going on, and my boredom was cured.”

  Occasionally the blonde came to dance around his stool, and Yermi would stroke her back and caress her hair as if she were his older sister, and she would lean into him with her lips hovering above his, then straighten up and take out her mobile, snap a selfie of the two of them and show him the image, before returning again to the silent dance floor.

  “Boredom is a powerful engine, rather underestimated,” he resumed. “When people look for a motive, they always talk about money, or love, or ego, or God. But if they examined what was really behind the most infamous crimes, they’d discover boredom as the number one motive. Think about it, you’re trying to kill time, which is absurd, because everyone knows that it’s time that eventually kills you at its own pace. Try to imagine a night shift in front of machines transmitting endless quantities of information. You’re waiting for someone to say something important. Night after night, day after day, your entire army service. It’s surprising there aren’t more cases like mine.”

  There are a lot of cases like yours, that’s why they called me back, thought Abadi. He couldn’t say that, or anything else that sounded forgiving. He needed to rattle the boy’s cage.

  “Boredom is a nice explanation, but save it for the judges. Everything you did, from the very beginning, you did for money.”

  Yermi’s rambling became more specific, almost coherent.

  “Money, yes. You
know, the problem with blackmail is that generally you don’t know how much money to demand. Is ten million too much or too little? How about two million, or thirty million? I was lucky. I had all the bribes neatly recorded, so I knew exactly how much money was involved. I asked for half, twenty million dollars, I thought that was fair enough. The Macau guy said they’d pay but they wanted the recording, so I had to find a way to get a tape.”

  “Where is the reel?” Abadi asked, trying hard not to sound too interested in the answer. Since reading Oriana’s report about the Uher, the priorities of his mission had changed dramatically.

  That was the moment the Russian blonde chose to frolick in front of them.

  “I don’t know and I don’t care,” Yermi replied after kissing her softly on the lips. “I used the hotel’s cable box to receive confirmation the payment had been made, and then we left and took the reel to Gare Saint Lazare as agreed. I trashed the room before Ekaterina arrived, to give the impression she had found the reel before kidnapping me.”

  Ekaterina again. Abadi watched her dancing, intrigued, and tried his luck. “It’s not too late, Yermi. It’s not too late. Come with me, the plane lands in an hour and the flight back to Israel leaves at 8 a.m., we’ll just about make it.”

  Yermi turned the force of his glare on Abadi, his eyelids rising slowly, as if undressing his interviewer. He smiled at first, his eyes squinting, amusement dancing in his pupils, and then he burst into laughter, high-pitched, wild and full of contempt. Mad. The sound reverberated between the silent dancers, permeating the dark room.

  Only after a fit of coughing could Yermi look at him and reply, “In time for what, Abadi? We’ll make it just in time for the newspaper headlines about the arrest of the biggest traitor in Israeli history, a gag order, rumours on WhatsApp and a show trial. Flash grenades thrown at my parents’ building.” Yermi was silent for a moment. “I mean, aren’t you the guy who went through all this himself? And for a far lesser betrayal? We’ll make it back just in time for what, exactly?”

  Abadi didn’t skip a beat. “We’ll make it back in time for the headquarters’ investigation into what happened at the southern base, and to them you’ll simply be a by-product of something a lot more serious,” Abadi said with almost sincere optimism. “I can’t promise that you won’t stand trial, but no-one has any interest in making this affair bigger than it is.”

  “No-one has any interest, Abadi? Is there anything but interests in this affair? The only question is what’s my interest, that’s all.”

  “And what is your interest?” Abadi said.

  He was made to wait for the answer because the blonde was once again all over Yermi, posing for a selfie – two, three, ten pictures. Yermi nodded at her and she backed away. There were fewer dancers on the floor by now, even though the absence of morning light could have kept them going forever. He downed the rest of his whisky before withdrawing his gaze from Ekaterina.

  “My interest is that you call the French police and tell them I want to turn myself in,” he said in a matter-of-fact, surprisingly mature tone.

  “Israel’s going to ask for extradition.”

  “Don’t be so naïve, Abadi, Israel won’t demand an extradition, they can’t even hint at what I did in any official document. If I come with you, they’ll throw me into some secret prison and make me disappear. If I go to the French, they’ll arrest me on a few petty charges, like the hotel thing, and after making a fuss they’ll release me. Forty-eight hours and I’ll be out. I had to stick around for something, but now I’m ready.”

  “If you’re talking about the bitcoin payment, we have your phone,” Abadi said, and looked into Yerminski’s bright eyes. The soldier seemed surprised for a moment, but quickly came to his senses.

  “A regrettable development, Abadi, but Shlomo is not my only partner in crime. Call the French police. If you don’t, I’ll just go out and find the nearest police station,” he said and swallowed another shot.

  Create the illusion of intimacy with the subject, check.

  Retrace the crime with the subject, check.

  Present the subject with the options available to him, check.

  Stress the severity of the subject’s situation, double-check.

  Abadi took out his mobile and searched for Léger’s number.

  Chapter 107

  Aluf Rotelmann jogged along the trails of the Hayarkon Park, listening to the morning news. The newscaster was explaining, in his familiar authoritative tone, that the body of Yaniv Meidan had been identified, and that the French police were still investigating the circumstances of his murder. It was not a lie, even if it was not news. What had happened – or at any rate, what they believed had happened – still could not be explained to the public. Returning his earphones to his pocket, Aluf Rotelmann exchanged glances with his two jogging companions, and they picked up their pace and started running in the direction of the lake.

  The men were his age. One was his neighbour from the same street in Ramat HaSharon, an affluent suburb north of Tel Aviv, and their children were in the same class at school. He was the chair of the board of a major food company founded by his grandfather. The other was a friend from the army; they had been together on the officers’ course and had not parted ways since. A little-known Knesset member, he still found a seat on the Foreign Affairs and Defence Committee.

  Both were members of the council for the appointment of Aluf Rotelmann to Chief of General Staff.

  The council did not really exist, not in the exact sense of the word. But it worked tirelessly behind the scenes of reality, in that same twilight zone where the truly important decisions are made, in closed messaging conversations, in nightly telephone calls and over morning jogs and formal dinners, and it oversaw inner-circle appointments, budget priorities and the appearance and disappearance of news reports – the twilight zone in which legitimacy is created.

  They had in their circle an advertising wizard and a T.V. pundit and a famous lawyer – they were eight in total. All men, they had known each other for years, and in order to survive they had to ensure that one of them climbed as high as possible up the ladder of power. Among the group, Aluf Rotelmann was the likeliest bet even for avowed non-gamblers.

  They stopped at their usual spot, beyond the bridge.

  “When will the news break?” the Knesset member asked.

  “It may not break,” Aluf Rotelmann said. “We may find a really good official explanation and everyone will eat it up.”

  “Even the Americans?”

  “No,” Aluf Rotelmann conceded. “I got the impression yesterday that they already know what’s going on. Obviously the head of 8200 did not like the fact that the Prime Minister’s office is transferring U.S. intelligence to someone unauthorised. Maybe the Americans worked out for themselves that there’s no nuclear business between Iran and Chinese businessmen in Macau, or maybe they didn’t. But they know now that we requested their data from Macau just to help the Prime Minister’s main donor.”

  “What are they going to do?”

  “Nothing, I hope. If it remains a criminal matter and doesn’t attract any international interest, the Americans will keep a low profile too. It’s one thing that we deceived them, but it’ll be a whole different problem if it blows up and everyone knows we deceived them.”

  “We can’t take that risk,” Aluf Rotelmann’s neighbour said, and his military friend agreed.

  “We can’t take that risk. Even if it passes quietly now, it could blow up five years from now, just when you’re planning your move to politics. You can’t be involved in this.”

  “I’m already involved in this. I reported it to them yesterday.”

  “You told them what you thought was true. That’s it. From now on, you stay out of it. The government will not be able to appoint a Commander in Chief of Tzahal who duped American intelligence. Let your deputy get involved, that guy, what’s his name?”

  “Zorro? He’s an imbecile,” Aluf Rotelmann said
with regret. “There’s no way they’ll buy that he was capable of driving a scam of this magnitude.”

  “What about that Moroccan? The one the head of 8200 rammed down your throat when you weren’t looking?”

  “He’s not Moroccan, he’s Tunisian,” Aluf Rotelmann said. “But the problem is, he was personally appointed by the Vice Chief of Defence Staff.”

  “We’ll deal with the Vice Chief of Defence Staff later,” the Knesset member said.

  Aluf Rotelmann said nothing for a long while. Finally he nodded his agreement, and they resumed their jog.

  Chapter 108

  The juge d’instruction was waiting, quite evidently, for Commissaire Léger to ask one of his officers to drive him home. Léger was waiting, just as plainly, for some kind of miracle.

  They were standing on the curb of the boulevard Saint-Germain, looking at the police buses start their engines and drive away from the scene. The corner café was dark. The statue of Danton was mute. Only the billboards in the intersection were lit, brimming with promises. A jeans ad encouraged him to always be himself. Léger was more inclined to be someone else, but no-one was lining up to trade places with him.

  He was about to instruct one of his officers to take the judge home when he saw his deputy running towards him from across the intersection, grasping his mobile as if it were the Olympic torch.

  “Commissaire, Commissaire,” he called out from the middle of the street, panting heavily. “Commissaire, it’s Abadi.”

  Léger was not sure that that was the name he wanted to hear just now. “What does he want?”

  “He’s found the missing soldier. He says the soldier wants to turn himself in.”

  “Turn himself in to Abadi?”

  “Turn himself in to us,” the deputy said breathlessly. “Where are they?” the judge said, whereas Léger did not dare to ask for details, fearful the magic might disappear once confronted with reality.