by E. L. Pini
“I’m afraid I’m already on my way, darling, dressed as I always am. But what’s the occasion? Mordechai getting a brain transplant?”
“Oh, stop it before I choke to death. So much ego in that head of his, I’m afraid there’s no room for a brain. Community meeting in an hour – senior command and special staff, with the new candidate for the head of the NSC. Froyke asked to have you there. And Moshe asked for the tie.”
I instinctively slowed down and moved into the middle lane. Something about what she said made me want to get there as late as possible. She was still on the line, waiting.
“My love, I’m neither command nor senior staff, although Froyke might insist otherwise, so I’ll be coming as I am, in jeans and a t-shirt.”
I wasn’t sure which shirt I’d worn, but glancing at the mirror I saw Garibaldi’s slobbering grin on my chest – the t-shirt Verbin got me for father’s day. “It isn’t Che Guevara this time, but another celebrity, every bit as important. I’m afraid they’ll have to take it or leave it – either option is fine by me.”
I heard Bella sigh and clear her throat before saying, “You know what? Bleib so wie du bist, as my father used to say. Come as you are. At least you can only go up from there.”
I switched back onto the left lane and sped up.
20.
“RP!” Dovik, the Chief of Military Intelligence, lunged at me the moment I walked into the office and smothered me in a hug worthy of a long-lost sibling. Dovik was in command of the Unit17 when Eran was killed, and ever since has been a part of my “brotherhood,” as Verbin would refer to it, along with Ami Kahanov, Froyke, Abrasha, Bruno, and O’Driscoll.
Dovik pointed at my t-shirt. “They finally gave Garibaldi security clearance?” I smiled in response, and at the same time noticed Moshe in the far corner of the office, whispering something to Professor Be’er. He looked at me and his eyes lit up.
“Ehrlich, let me introduce you – this is our guest, Professor Yisrael Be’er.”
“And you are the famous RP? It’s an honor to meet you,” Be’er smiled toothily, and offered me his hand. It was moist and limp.
“What does RP stand for, by the way?”
Moshe, apparently trying to keep me non-hostile, quickly clarified: “It stands for ‘Rage and Power’ – you are standing, professor, in the presence of two hundred and thirty pounds of rage and power.”
“I assume that includes this big dog?” Be’er asked, still smiling, and turned to shake another hand – this time the head of the Service, who winked sideways at me. Out the corner of my eye I noticed Mordechai walk into the room along with Nahum from foreign relations, and hurry towards Be’er. Where the hell was Froyke? I wondered.
A baby-faced lieutenant from infosec entered the room with a plastic basket and took everyone’s phones. After she left, Be’er brought up a map of the Middle East on the main screen and indicated the Iranian bases, which together formed a wide arc. Moshe would often refer to this shape as the Shiite Crescent. It spread from western Iran through Iraq, Lebanon and Syria, all the way to the border at the Golan Heights, encroaching on our border through both Lebanon and Syria.
“Their intention, in establishing themselves across this arc, is twofold,” said Be’er. “The short-term goal is to keep us from attacking the reactors in Iran: we attack there – they attack here, at point black range. But their long-term goal poses a much greater threat.”
The highlighted arc on the map grew to engulf Israel, Gaza and Egypt in the west, along with the Gulf countries in the south, all the way to the Strait of Hormuz.
“This, according to them, is the territory of the New Iranian Empire. As you can see, the state of Israel is lodged in there like a thorn in their side, which is why it must be destroyed and removed from the map altogether.”
“Calm down, professor,” said Dovik. “We’re not as puny as you’re making us out here, and they’re not as huge. Meanwhile we’ve been kicking their ass on a daily basis and there’s been no retaliation. I mean,” he pointed at me, “Ehrlich nearly set half of Tehran on fire singlehandedly.”
Nearly all the others laughed – Nahum choked slightly in an attempt not to, Moshe turned a furious red, and Mordechai the Jew couldn’t help but mutter, “Ehrlich nearly threw us into war.”
Be’er drummed his fingers on the conference table and waited with a sort of arrogant annoyance.
“May I continue?” he asked, when the room fell quiet again. “Anyway, according to the Iranian vision, the territory of Israel will be handed over to the Palestinians.”
“Now for a dash of Hitler,” Nahum whispered in my ear, making a little sprinkling gesture with his fingers.
“Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and the rest of the Sunni states will be properly converted into Shia, and in fact all of the water and oil in the Middle East will come under Iranian control.”
“That sounds quite alarming,” said Nahum, and I tried to whisper back that if things are so dire, we should probably go grab a snack before it’s all over, but somehow it came out louder than I intended and the ensuing wave of giggles around us only deepened the already considerable awkwardness.
The professor was unbothered, apparently having developed thick skin from many years of teaching annoying students. He ignored the laughs and continued: “The political repercussions are just as crucial as the military ones. We must understand, and implement in our political consciousness, that the temporary agreement of interests which currently exists between Russia and Iran is just that – temporary. In fact, the Iranian expansion plans clash with the Russian’s territorial interests, not to mention their plans for the harbors along the Mediterranean and, of course, the oil, which is an important source of income for the Russians, and a vital one for the Iranians.”
I didn’t know what annoyed me more; the professor’s doom-laden babbling or my steadily growing hunger. Thankfully, a soldier carrying a food cart came in to solve the latter, at least. There were roast beef sandwiches with pickles, tomatoes and mustard on a red tray, and cheese sandwiches served on a green tray. I assumed this new adherence to kosher eating was in honor of Mordechai and the kippah-wearing professor.
I peeled away the bread from two roast beef sandwiches and married them with some cheese slices from the vegetarian ones. From across the table, Mordechai gave me an odd look. Want a bite? I mouthed, pointing at the mixed sandwich. I received no reply.
“Most importantly, and with this I’ll be concluding,” Be’er said, “the Iranian vision is driven by an engine of religious, Shiite-Islamic fundamentalism, while the Russian vision is driven by the desire for the financial wellbeing of the Russian people. In other words, in the long term, there is inherent similarity between the interests of the United States and the West in general, including us, of course, and the interests of the Russians. This fact must echo loud and clear throughout every relevant decision-making process. On the other hand, in the short term, the most pressing obligation seems to be that of self-defense. Thank you.”
Be’er sat down.
“The Chief of AMAN18,” Moshe announced, and Dovik stood up and started talking at his usual pace of about one word per minute.
“I believe that all of us in the intelligence community agree with your analysis regarding the strategy underlining the Iranian efforts to establish themselves nearby and grab us by the short and curlies. As I’m sure you know, a considerable chunk of our resources is aimed at Iran; our pilots can probably fly there blindfolded, by now. But your claims regarding the similarity of interests between the Russians and the West seem unfounded and overly theoretic. Either way, I’ve yet to hear concrete suggestions of the actual operational moves we can make, based on this vision of similar interests.”
“Seems pretty straightforward to me,” said Mordechai. “We must mine and dig up the intel that will allow our politicians to realize this vision.”
“R
idiculous,” said Nahum. “You’re taking this premise as a given and then expecting us to find the data to justify it.”
“I see no grounds for this degree of certainty,” said Moshe, looking at Dovik and Nahum, “But of course, if we are ordered to by the political echelon, we could start a project focusing on recognizing and revealing these common interests. Isn’t that right, Ehrlich? So what are you waiting for?”
“Me? I’m waiting for Froyke.”
“He’s been delayed, something about his prosthesis needing refitting,” said Moshe, and immediately added, “But we’d be delighted to hear your opinion.”
I studied his face for a moment. He was sharply dressed as usual, tie and bespoke suit, cold and courteous like a proper British lord, hiding a brilliant and surprisingly conniving brain behind the noble exterior. He had at least one goal – no, two – that I could fathom: He wanted me to challenge Be’er’s hypothesis and hopefully tear it apart, and he wanted to drag me into the cesspool of the senior command. And I happened to have a great deal to say, but was struggling to temper it so as not to offend his guest. I also suspected that the prosthesis thing was just an excuse to let me face this worm on my own.
Moshe looked at me and raised an eyebrow.
Fuck it. I decided to say what was on my mind.
“Look,” I said, “I’m out in the field, as you know. I don’t know this highbrow academic theory presented by the learned future head of the NSC. I’m out in the field and all I see is the whites of the eyes of the Quds force unit 400 fighters and the murky whites of the eyes of ex- Spetsnaz fighters who used to be KGB and now they’re FSB. From this viewpoint I’ve detected none of this ‘similarity of interests’ between the Russians and the West. What I see is the double game – maybe triple –that the Russians are playing here: they’ve done everything they can to crush ISIS’ Islamic state, but not the ISIS fighters themselves,” I said, noticing Be’er visibly tense out the corner of my eye, and continued, “So what do they get? The ISIS oil on one hand, and on the other, tens of thousands of trained jihadi fighters who’ll be assimilated into the United States and Europe as refugees, and eat away at them from within.”
“Excellent analysis,” said Dovik, and Be’er said that while it was a truly creative observation, it was entirely false.
“But please continue, Mr. Ehrlich,” he asked.
I looked at Moshe. He nodded curtly.
“We know that since Glasnost and the dissolution of the USSR Russian technological and industrial infrastructures have been shoddily maintained and, frankly, collapsing. It’s another day, another Chernobyl – ballistic missiles exploding in their faces, Akula subs leaking like sieves. Their navy officers are dying from radiation poisoning, and if they don’t die fast enough, they get help.”
“Isn’t this going a bit far, Mr. Ehrlich?”
“No more than you, professor.”
Moshe moved his hand in a small, calming gesture, but at this point I’d gained too much momentum to stop. “The Russians are intentionally generating conflict between us and the Iranians in Syria, and when we attack, they find some pretext to swoop in as saviors of the Syrian people, and sell them a bunch of aerial defense systems. In fact, they know that our government will avoid letting the Air Force destroy the S-300 and S-400 missile systems, just so that they won’t embarrass the entire Russian anti-air collection and dent their sales.” I was forced to pause for breath, but Mordechai cut in. “What exactly is this… insane drivel based on? The ‘whites of the eyes’ of some Kurdish militant you blew up with an RPG? Moshe, what is this?”
Moshe hushed Mordechai with a dismissive wave. Be’er was writing incessantly in a little notebook.
“We don’t know how accurate Ehrlich’s hypothesis is, but at the very least it’s a unique and original perspective and, coming directly from the field, it should be taken into account. Professor?”
“Of course – while I completely disagree, these claims are certainly entertaining and illuminating. I’d love to hear more.”
Moshe nodded, and gestured at me to continue.
“Is this necessary, boss?”
“Yes, RP, it’s necessary,” Dovik interjected. “Your fans await!”
Moshe smiled and made a sort of sweeping motion with his arm, broad and generous.
“The Russians are transferring components to the Iranian reactors,” I said, “and getting paid with the crude oil that the Iranians are prevented by sanctions from selling to anyone else. They buy it cheap, and sell at an insane profit. As for their involvement in Syria – remember, they have to have ports to the Mediterranean, like Latakia and Tartus – not only because their own ports freeze during the winter, but because they want a foothold near us, and near Europe and NATO on this side of the globe, because NATO is eating into the Ukraine and Poland and Georgia, close to home. They’re helping Assad use chemical warfare on his own civilians, so that when the funds to rebuild Syria starts pouring in by the billions from Qatar and Saudi Arabia, the Russian businesses will already be there to pick the fruit. And that was about my annual word allowance, I think.”
Dovik looked like he was about to start clapping, but Moshe gave him a look and he thought better of it.
“Does anyone else have any thoughts they’d like to share regarding this topic? Or shall we conclude for the day?” asked Moshe. A brief silence resulted, followed be the noisy chatter and scraping of chairs of people leaving.
Only after most of the participants had dispersed, Froyke blithely entered. “Good work, Ehrlich. Good work,” he said, in the voice of the cat that had gotten the cream and was now licking it from his whiskers. Dovik came up and wrapped his arm around Froyke’s shoulder. “How’s the leg?” he asked, grinning, and didn’t seem to expect a reply. He nodded toward Be’er, who was conversing with Moshe across the room.
“Good thing you sent Ehrlich to cut that pompous putz down to size. Where the hell did he come from?”
Froyke sighed. “The official function of the National Security Council was initially to represent reality to the PM, a sort of second opinion other than ours. These days they seem to be representing the PM in the face of reality.”
“Does he even have clearance?” asked Dovik, just as Nahum joined us.
“I sure hope he does,” said Nahum. “Where does the PM find these guys?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Froyke. “All I know is that he was a serious Refusenik19. He was fired from the university in Moscow… he used to be something in the Red Army, too.”
“I’m fairly certain the PM keeps a warehouse somewhere filled with piles of these schmucks,” I contributed, just as everyone else fell silent – Be’er was approaching us. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Ehrlich privately for a moment, if possible.”
I looked at Froyke, who gave his approval with a nod. I followed Be’er to a silent far corner of the room.
“Look, RP – I can call you RP, right?”
For lack of any other real option, I nodded.
“Our opinions are completely different, but I must say that your thesis – despite my finding it fundamentally flawed – sounds well thought out and well-established, and certainly highly inventive. I know how busy you must be, but please, come visit my office when you can. It’s right by the Prime Minister’s! I’d love to exchange theories,” he said, winking. “By the way, what was that thing about setting Tehran on fire?”
“Just an inside joke.”
He suddenly reached into his briefcase and pulled out a large, ornamental box of Cohiba cigars and handed it to me. I was understandably dumbfounded. Forty cigars, at over fifty dollars a pop, and he’s just giving it to me? I sniffed the box in spite of myself. “It’s sealed, but feel free to open it – it’s for you. Just a little gift.”
“This isn’t little,” I said. “And even if it were, you know I’m prevented from
receiving gifts.”
“You know how to resist temptation,” he laughed. “Good. Then, may I at least offer you one cigar? Personal use only,” he said, again winking at me clumsily.
“I think I could manage that, yeah.”
“In that case, please, have one.”
The scent was intoxicating and the cigars were fresh and soft to the touch. I chose one, and with considerable grief parted with the rest of the box.
“You don’t smoke?” I asked when he carefully returned the box to his briefcase.
“Not anymore. The doctors… Anyway, enjoy it, and please drop by my office when you get the chance. The rest of the box will be waiting. Speaking of Cohiba, you’ll never guess who founded this factory – none other than Che Guevara himself, when he was the Minister of Industries. But, like Moses, he never got to see the promised land… killed before they started production.”
He offered me his hand and I shook it, realizing that this moist little asshole had done his research on me.
Nora approached me with some urgency and pulled me to the side. “Uzi’s in Asmara, waiting for you to join him. Bella already got you a seat on an Air Force flight.”
* * *
17General Staff Reconnaissance Unit, also known as “The Unit”) – The elite commando unit of the IDF Intelligence Directorate (the Israeli equivalent of Delta Force in the United States).
18The common abbreviation for the Military Intelligence Directorate of the IDF.
19An unofficial term for Soviet Jews who were denied permission to emigrate to Israel by the authorities of the Soviet Union. This ban was lifted in 1971, leading to a wave of Soviet immigration in the ‘70s.
21.
The Samson, a military transport aircraft, has four engines and not a single bar – a disadvantage, certainly, but one which is dwarfed by the many advantages of flying with the Air Force, starting with the absence of any of the bureaucracy and hassle of a civilian airport, and continuing with there being no stops and connections as long as the target is in flight range. More than anything, I reveled in the opportunity to stretch my legs to their full length without hitting the chair in front of me, or some drugged Ger Hassid who steps on your foot and never apologizes.