by E. L. Pini
We knew some of this, but it seemed that no one – not us, nor our colleagues, including the Americans – had fully comprehended that fact that it is real, that it is happening right now. That Putin is fully bent on carving out a new, more disciplined world.
The undercover journey came to its final phase with Moshe and his “daughter” landing in Kiev, where they were joined by their “cousin” Yosef, a Russian-born major in the IDF Naval Intelligence Division. They drove from Kiev to Sevastopol, the port city that had until recently served as the home port of the Soviet submarine fleet, and the locus for many of its clandestine activities.
Back then the city had been under lockdown, anyone entering or exiting it requiring the approval of the KGB. Vasily Timoshenko, the head of the local agency, who generously accommodated Moshe, Nora and Yosef during their visit, also provided them with a thick “secret sub dossier,” backed with numbers, dates, photographs and witness reports on the activity of the Russian submarine fleet. Timoshenko reported that the intelligence gathering activities of the Ukrainian intelligence agency had been severely harmed by the cancellation of the UAV deal with Israel – a cancellation which the Russians had forced on Israel.
“Our common enemy,” he said. “Their veto only refers to new UAVs, but doesn’t cover the supply of spare parts and repairs, or upgrades for new UAVs.” Moshe nodded sympathetically and Timoshenko took back the “secret sub dossier,” leafed through it for a moment, and tossed it into the trash bin under his desk.
“You know all of this just as well as I do – but not this,” he said, fishing a green memory card from his pocket. “This is a list of the Ukrainian citizens – workers, engineers, security guards – who’ve worked at the submarine shipyard. They probably have some interesting stories to tell. And I assume you prefer a first-hand report.”
Addressing Yosef in Ukrainian, Timoshenko added that he’d be more than happy to cooperate and contribute to “fucking those Russian bastards.” He’d be sure to get on it the second the Israelis started with the UAV repairs.
A week later, a team of Israeli engineers and technicians landed in Kiev, sent by an aerial equipment manufacturer registered in Lichtenstein, and got to work. At the same time, Cousin Yosef was joined by Duchin from the Ukrainian security service, and together they began a series of interviews with the Ukrainian shipyard workers. Most of them were more than happy to provide information, and the few who tried to avoid them were soon brought on board by Duchin.
At this point no clear picture could be gleaned from these interviews – only a large pile of info, dozens and dozens of puzzle pieces that wouldn’t come together. Yosef, who was very familiar with the “great Russian soul,” used the budget provided to him to clarify the bits of the puzzle that were too partial or unclear.
After nine 24-hour days, the puzzle began to come together: in June of 1991, a nuclear submarine marked SS469 was brought up to the Sevastopol shipyard for “mid-life maintenance” – 120 thousand man hours, nearly two and a half years, and a bottomless budget. Despite its relatively young age, the sub was disassembled completely and stripped of its weapon systems. Most of the inner chambers were removed and replaced by a single large space, into which the secret bomb was brought – the Tsar Bomba, lovingly nicknamed the Kuzkina Mat, the largest hydrogen bomb in the world. The doomsday weapon was developed under Khrushchev’s orders to counter the Americans’ strategic advantage. Most of the evidence supporting this was hearsay – but still, on the last morning of their visit, Nora and Yosef went to see the engineer G.L – a cripple just over sixty, living alone in an unkempt, dirty apartment overflowing with newspaper clippings, empty boxes of canned food, and cat shit.
G.L only agreed to talk after the head of the local agency came in person to guarantee that his identity and the details of his testimony would be kept secret, and bring him an envelope with 10,000 dollars.
G.L spoke through a tube in his throat, and even the Ukrainians had some trouble understanding him, but it eventually turned out that he had been the head mechanical engineer and was responsible for mounting the bomb in place, and so his job demanded that he knew what was happening. He claimed to have had an affair with the commander of the Black Sea fleet’s secretary, and she was the one who urged him to go into hiding a day before completing the mounting. After the project was over, the sub disappeared, never to be seen in the Ukraine again – and most of the engineering team along with it.
While G.L’s tale was both fascinating and alarming, even Moshe agreed that it was more relevant to the Americans than it was to us. They were given access to the full file, and Boris was ordered to keep digging for any lead that might expose the target of Hamdani and Rasputin’s machinations.
The day after Moshe passed the material on to the Americans, an exceedingly frustrated Boris called me on the secure line, just as I was heading into Froyke’s office for a drink and a Cohiba.
“Listen, boss, you give me one little all-clear, I’ll pack ‘em both up for you, nice and tight, and shove their balls down their throat until they talk, and believe me, they will talk.”
“That’s… kind of a radical solution, don’t you think?”
“Radical problems call for radical solutions.”
“Our hands are tied, Boris. Until we get permission, we do as much as we’re allowed to, nothing more.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” he said, angrily. “Whatever you say.”
“But Boris – keep a tight hold on the bastards, yeah? I want every fart on file.”
“Every fart, boss. I’m on them like white on rice. Listen, boss, you remembered the mustachioed lady, the secretary from RET?”
“Affirmative.”
“Some interesting stuff has come to light.”
“Call you back in a sec, I want Froyke in on this.” I hung up, went into the office and told Froyke, “Boris has new info, you want in?”
He nodded and I called Boris back from the landline.
“You were saying about the lady with the mustache.”
“So,” said Boris, “by now she’s taken the Gigolo to dinner with her parents. A lavish old dacha in the forest.”
“I hope the kid’s not getting into trouble,” said Froyke.
“I’m keeping an eye out,” said Boris, and went on, “Her father, listen closely, is no less than a director in Rosoboronexport. In their house – listen closely, boss – there are three framed photographs of Putin, all personally signed by him. He is a young soldier in uniform in all three – one’s dated to 1921, one to 1941, and one recent. You know this fucking myth these people worship, like Putin is some goddamn immortal, a time traveler who’s come to save Mother Russia. And Rasputin is his personal representative, there to look after the President’s interests in the corporation, and responsible for the execution of special operations.”
Froyke shook his head. “Good work, Boris, but is this going somewhere?”
“Through the mustachioed lady, Gigolo met Grisha. Who is Grisha, you might ask, boss? Well, Grisha is Rasputin’s personal assistant – who, by the way, is also looking for love, of the more classically mustachioed kind. He’s looking for it almost every night, in bars and clubs and hotels.”
Froyke sent me a meaningful glance, both impressed and astonished.
“The Russian gays, they are absolute gold to a business like ours. Fifteen years of living in the closet can teach anyone excellent spy habits.”
“How are you going about it?”
“I’m not going anywhere. That’ll be our Gigolo, the busiest man in the Republic.”
“And he can handle them both?”
“Can? He’s over the moon.”
“Tell me, Boris, did it occur to you that this development could be the sort of thing we might be interested in?”
“It did – and here I am, telling you all about it.”
“Do you… rea
lize what you’re onto, here, you glorious son of a bitch?”
“Yeah, boss.”
“Well done, Boris!” Said Froyke. “We’re taking out the bottle.”
“Boris!” I nearly yelled. “We’re pouring a drink in your honor.”
“L’chaim!” Boris said. “Shame I can’t join you.”
Before I could reply, Froyke’s internal line started blinking.
“Sorry, Boris, I have to take this – keep us updated,” said Froyke, and answered the other call.
“Good morning, Froyke,” came the familiar voice of the DM.
“Good morning, Moshe.”
“Alone?”
“With RP.”
“RP? Great, bring your… apprentice along, too. I’m sitting with Professor Be’er, on the PM’s behalf, and I’d love it if you joined us.”
“Okay, we’re on our way,” Froyke said, and hung up.
I asked him if Kahanov knew Be’er was here.
“Kahanov asked to proceed as usual,” he whispered, as he opened the door.
34.
The first thing I noticed when we went into Moshe’s conference room was Professor Be’er’s haughty face; then, Nora’s cleavage; then, Mordechai, sitting at the far end of the table. When he saw me looking at him, he raised his hand and smiled. I ignored him, and pointedly looked around – noticing Nahum, I smiled at him, and he replied with a salute.
“Good morning, all,” said Be’er. “The Prime Minister would like to hear what the chiefs of the intelligence community have to say about yesterday’s events, and in order to waste as little of your precious time as possible, when I leave here I’ll be going to visit the Chief of AMAN, then the commander of the Air Force.”
“Okay, so what do we know about yesterday?” asked Moshe.
Nora put on her reading glasses, brought up a map of Syria, and reported: “The attacks were aimed at the SSRC research center at Barzah-Jamraya and at the military base in Al-Kiswah, The site of their chemical-biological ammunition. The attack commenced at 2 am, with a barrage of 58 Sixth Fleet Tomahawk missiles, and about 20 air-to-surface missiles from other allied aircraft.”
“Thank you, Nora. What can you tell us about the Syrian response?” asked Moshe.
“We’re estimating that the response was Russian, not Syrian. More specifically, Russian teams operating the batteries provided to the Syrians. Our analysis indicates 25 Tomahawk missiles were shot down before impact by the S-300 and S-400 batteries.”
“Fifty percent hit ratio,” muttered Nahum. “Scary.”
“If I may,” said Be’er, pointedly looking away from Moshe, “If I may, I’d like to note that the Syrian military reports 71 missiles intercepted, also mentioning the ratio between short-range and long-range interceptions. Even if we only take our own reports into consideration, a fifty percent success rate is a mightily alarming number, and the only truly relevant concern here. Their system works.”
“I don’t understand why the Americans would neglect to coordinate with our Air Force,” said Mordechai. “I’m certain that –”
“Our Air Force is not the subject of this discussion, Motti,” Moshe sharply interjected.
“But, Moshe, we are after all capable of neutralizing –”
“I don’t know, and it isn’t the subject right now.”
From the tone of the exchange it was clear that Moshe had decided not to let Mordechai in on the Be’er situation.
“The interesting thing about this,” said Froyke, “is the degree of specificity exhibited in the Syrian report – which S-400 missiles brought down the Tomahawks at close range, which at medium range, which at long range; I can’t remember the last time an enemy report freely provided such a level of tactical detail.”
“What do you think, Mr. Ehrlich?” asked Be’er. “I’d love your opinion.”
A nearly unperceivable nod from Moshe told me to reply.
“Mr. Ehrlich thinks that the interesting point mentioned by Froyke is, indeed, the appropriate subject for discussion here. It has all the makings of a marketing tactic played by the muzhiks.”
“Could you elaborate?” asked Be’er, scribbling eagerly in his notebook.
I looked at Froyke and Moshe and received encouraging nods from both. “Unlike Mordechai,” I continued, “our division doesn’t know what the Air Force had prepared and whether they could’ve assisted the Americans. What I do know is that the big scary S-400 is an improvement on the SA-6, which our Air Force ripped to shreds back in ’82 – from what I understand, high-ranking officials in their aerial defense systems were executed on account of this failure.”
I studied Be’er’s face for a response, but there was nothing.
“I think it’s safe to assume,” I continued, “that in all the years the Russians were busy developing and honing the SA-6 into the S-400, our own people weren’t resting on their laurels, either.”
I glanced again at Froyke, who made a small move it along gesture with his finger, then took some air and leaned forward, saying, “Russia, if you ask me, is a deflated balloon, an empire stripped of its power, which must now somehow recover and is currently struggling to do just that. Their technology is outdated. Their main deterrence, the Akula subs, are leaking like sieves, and not just water – their fleet is dying from radiation poisoning, and those who aren’t are killed by the KGB: The Next Generation. They are, to be blunt, in the shit – and so they’ll do everything in their power to stir up as much trouble as possible between us and the Syrians and Iranians. The more the situation between us escalates, the better off the Russians are. Ostensibly, they are the only thing keeping us from falling into war, and so they get to maintain their status as the de facto rulers of this region, and they don’t even have to stop trading Iranian crude oil and selling them anything from small arms to entire anti-air defense systems like the S-400.”
“Thank you,” said Be’er. “As usual, I agree with virtually none of that, but it is always a pleasure to listen to you speak.”
“You live, you learn. Take the apprentice’s word.”
Moshe and Nahum both attempted to suppress their smiles; Froyke laughed.
“So,” Mordechai turned to me. “If I understand you…”
“Doubtful,” I muttered, and heard Froyke and Nora snorting.
“If I understand you,” Mordechai continued with all the authority he could muster, “you’re saying that the Iranians, including the Russian support they’ve been getting, are really no threat whatsoever.”
“That’s not at all what I’m saying. The Iranians are obviously a meaningful, serious threat – just not as serious as we are. If we are heading towards a second holocaust, as you are so fond of saying whenever the opportunity arises, it won’t come from the Russians, and it won’t come from the Iranians; it’ll come from within.”
“Okay, thank you all,” Moshe promptly decided to put an end to our bickering. “Mordechai, Froyke, Ehrlich – I need five minutes of your time, please.”
When we got up, Be’er turned to Moshe and said, “I’m sorry – would it be possible to steal Mr. Ehrlich from a few moments?”
“Very well,” said Moshe. “Ehrlich, I’ll see you in me office in six minutes.”
What, I wondered, does the dreck want with me now?
“Outside?” Be’er asked, pulling out a Cohiba box.
“Outside,” I said.
On the way to the little smoking area we passed through Bella, where Be’er got his phone back and waited while I got mine.
“Tell me, RP – can I call you RP yet?” he handed me a cigar. “Do you honestly have no fear of the consequences, the possible response?”
“In my line of work, I have to be afraid all of the time.”
“So what it is, then?”
“Look, Professor, if I plan things with fear being my main motiva
tor, I’m finished. In this business, fear should be a guide, it should keep you up at night, but before an operation you have to take all of your fears and put them in a safe and lock them in there.”
“Fascinating. And is there nothing about the power of Russia that you find concerning? I ask because you obviously possess… how shall I put this… a great degree of influence on the actions of your colleagues.”
“I honestly don’t think the Russians are a cause for serious concern, unless they declare us a direct enemy, which they won’t.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Well, we’re the only thing stopping Iran from growing in strength and getting in the way of the Russians becoming a local power.”
“Hmm. Interesting… an original insight, but I believe that Russia is already such a power. How else would you explain the fact that Putin took the Crimean Peninsula and basically took Syria as well, and the Americans aren’t lifting a finger?”
“Because they don’t care that much. And they’ll let Putin keep growing as long as they don’t care that much.”
“That’s hardly reassuring,” said Be’er.
“You know what’s even less reassuring? The great threat to the Russians. Just like here, it is the threat from within.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your Kuzkina mat,” I sent up a little experiment, stretching out our new info from the Ukraine. Be’er visibly recoiled, his head drawing back. A moment later he recovered, and smiled, saying, “Kusinka, not Kuzinka. One of Khrushchev’s jokes.”
“A bad joke.”