by E. L. Pini
A heavy silence fell over the room when she finished, everyone engrossed in their own thoughts. I thought about Verbin, and about Eran, and then about Boris.
After a few moments Ben David lit his pipe and puffed out a small tendril of smoke. No one said anything. A second later he put it out and said, “Sorry,” breaking the silence. He cleared his throat. “The Rostov has a total cruising capability, flotation and diving, of forty-five days at the most without a dock. The outdated prototype carrying the bomb probably has less than that. A bit of luck, and I assume it’ll be discovered by our systems, or someone else’s. And anyway, it’s important we remember that it isn’t the Soviet fleet – I’m sorry, the Russian fleet – that’s threatening us.”
“PM’s on the way,” said Moshe, “with the Chief of the General Staff and the commander of the Air Force. Please prepare yourselves for a long day. We’ll have lunch in here. Until then you have time to cancel whatever you need to, and bring this matter to the top of the EEI.”
Shaike from Naval Intelligence raised his hand, then immediately dropped it.
“Ask what you need to, Shaike,” said Moshe.
“I don’t know if this needs asking, but how well do you trust your source?”
“Look,” said Moshe, “on one hand, I can only tell you that we have no previous experience with the particular source. On the other hand, there are extremely strong forces pressuring him which, in our estimation, do not allow him any room for dishonesty, and our own people involved are –”
“The best,” I finished for him. “the absolute best, with a long, impressive record.”
“Be that as it may, it still isn’t a full-blown danger – it is a threat, nothing more,” Dovik attempted to calm things down.
“Do we have any idea how aware the Iranians are of our second-strike capabilities?” asked Berger, the head of Maf’at.
“We’re not there, yet, I hope,” said Dovik. “But to answer your question, we make sure that they know about these capabilities, and make sure that they know we know they know. And that seems to be what’s keeping their hands in their pockets, at least so far.”
“Lunchtime,” Bella declared through the intercom, and two young soldiers on kitchen duty came in, pushing food carts.
“Excellent timing,” Moshe nodded. “I suggest we prepare the relevant questions and answers. And be succinct, please. The PM’s time is valuable.”
“Sure,” said Dovik, “schedule’s tight when you’ve got three or four elections per year.”
“Moshe, did the PM speak to Putin?” asked Nahum, eagerly wolfing down a ham sandwich.
“I don’t know,” said Moshe. “You can ask him yourself in a minute.”
“Do we even have time to eat?” asked Nahum, still chewing.
“Somehow, I’m not worried about you,” Moshe smiled, and peeked at his watch.
Nahum looked at me and tipped his head toward the cart, as if to say help yourself while you still can, but a moment later the door opened and the Prime Minister walked in, accompanied by the Chief of the General Staff and the commander of the Air Force.
“Bon appetite,” he said.
Nahum smiled sheepishly and quickly finished chewing.
The PM also began by asking how much we trusted our source. Moshe glanced at me. I said I trust him one hundred percent. The Chief of the General Staff said that tomorrow he’d be attending the officer graduation ceremony at Training Base 1 – a ceremony that would be covered by the military media, and if necessary, he could take the opportunity to elaborate on our second-strike potential, capable of completely destroying Tehran, its adjoining regions, and much more.
The PM nodded; Moshe asked the Chief of the General Staff not to divulge any new information on the subject. The commander of the Air Force surprised us by mentioning that we were approaching the anniversary of Operation Mole Cricket 19, and we could use this timing to create a press assault about the overwhelming victory of the Israeli Air Force over the Iranian-Syrian-Russian aerial defense systems.
Nahum took us all by surprised when he asked the PM when he intended to discuss this matter with the Russian president.
The man didn’t hesitate a second before lying like only a politician can. “Just this morning I had a lovely chat, as usual, with the Russian president, who promised to do everything in his power, but stressed that this matter has nothing whatsoever to do with the Russian government,” he said. “The submarine and the bomb were sold to the Iranians by the RET corporation, which, like similar organizations around the world, including in Israel and the US, is run as an entirely financial entity. The president said repeatedly that he would do everything in his power to prevent a nuclear war in the Middle East,” the PM declared in conclusion.
The sheer skill, I thought to myself, and wondered who, if anyone, among the participants was capable of becoming a politician: certainly not Dovik, who generally speaks his mind. The Chief of the General Staff? Unclear – though men in his profession had recently made a hobby of running for office. Nahum? No way. Even I would have a better shot.
Berger from Maf’at presented the simulator his people had prepared, with the cooperation of the Technion’s physics department and the nuclear scientists from the Dimona reactor. “This app allows us to estimate the impact of a nuclear explosion, based on its force, population data from the area, and the changing destruction and nuclear fallout radii centered around the site of the explosion. This is all theoretical, of course.”
“What do you mean, theoretical?” asked the PM, apprehensively. “Is the data relevant or is this science fiction?”
Ben David came to the aid of his successor, saying, “The data is entirely theoretical and completely trustworthy. Not science fiction.”
“Please explain,” said Moshe.
“Think of a vehicle weighing a ton, driving at 100 mph, that collides with a human. You can easily calculate the effect of this impact. The death of said human is entirely theoretical, but still very much predictable.”
“Thank you, Yizhak,” said Moshe, looking at the PM, who signaled Berger to continue.
“The central focus here,” said Berger, pointing, “is Tel Aviv. If the Tsar bomb were to strike here, it would result in the complete destruction of all structures and infrastructure in a twenty-mile radius. Tel Aviv would be wiped out, along with Ramat Gan, Rishon LeZion, Ramat HaSharon and Herzliya.”
Berger’s face was growing steadily redder. He took some deep breaths and continued, “According to the average housing density data, we predict about 2.5 million deaths within the scope of the explosion. The range of the fallout is much greater, reaching as far as 45 miles, depending on wind speed and direction…”
Nahum’s customary whistle received no acknowledgement, apart from the PM, who gave him an odd, distant look. The commander of the Air Force looked like he was about to say something. He looked at the PM, who seemed to grow more distant by the second, looking around the table as if none of this had anything to do with him, as if it really were science fiction.
“Do your calculations take into account the height of the explosion?” asked the commander of the Air Force, cracking the silence.
Berger glanced at his laptop and replied with grating slowness, “The data I’ve delivered assumes that the bomb has been dropped from a plane or via a missile from an altitude of…”
“Do you know any plane capable of lifting this bomb?” Dovik interjected, impatiently. “There’s no such animal. The thing weighs over twenty tons.”
Berger did not reply, merely passing his gaze across the table, his eyes and movement strangely lethargic.
Nora was the first to understand something was amiss, and hurried to pour him a glass of water. He drank, slowly.
“I’m not feeling well. Yizhak, do you mind taking over?” he asked, and collapsed into his chair.
“Be
lla! We’ve got a medical emergency! Get an ambulance, a doctor, a medic, now!”
The rest of the forum all lunged at Berger at once; Nora kept them at bay, giving him air. The PM stood at a distance, disinterested, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. He seemed to be checking his phone.
“Ehrlich, a hand!” said Nora.
I hurried to her side, picked Berger up as gently as I could and started carrying him toward the door, just as the medic opened it and came in. He brought a stretcher and a CPR kit. Moshe quickly reached for Berger’s still-open laptop and snapped the lid shut.
“Low pulse,” said the medic. “Help me carry him out to the ambulance.”
Two paramedics hurried inside, wheeling in a bigger stretcher.
“I’m going with him,” said Nora.
“No need,” Bella replied. “The doctor’s already here. the rest of you – back inside,” she ordered us.
“What happened to him?” the PM momentarily raised his eyes from his phone.
Bella shrugged. “I think he’ll be fine. Go back inside.”
“Victim number one,” Nahum muttered beside me. “Only two million, four hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine to go.”
Moshe took a deep breath and authoritatively stated: “He’ll be fine. Let’s get back to work.”
“To answer your question,” said Ben David, looking at the Commander of the Air Force, “the data indeed assumed an aerial assault. We can run another simulation from sea level or ground level. It will have a smaller destructive radius, of course, but that hardly matters, does it?”
“How can you say that?” the commander of the Air Force said, distraught.
“What will change when we know that a lower altitude delivery will result in a million dead rather than two and a half? Will we act differently?” The commander of the Air Force looked at the PM, who not only failed to respond, but seemed not to notice that every eye in the room was directed at him. I felt like walking up and shaking him, but Moshe seemed to sense what I was thinking, and with a hard look commanded that I stay put.
Ben David sucked absently on his unlit pipe and said to the commander of the Air Force, “You know, Benny, I’m convinced that even if we don’t know until the very last moment the exact number of victims, it will have no impact whatsoever on our course of action.”
No one answered him, and he leveled his gaze directly at the PM, saying, “There were times when six hundred thousand were enough to keep this entire country on alert.”
“At least you’re optimistic,” mumbled the commander of the Air Force.
Ben David looked at the PM, who once again failed to respond or even acknowledge that anything had been said. Ben David shrugged and the Chief of the General Staff, who so far had remained silent, stood up and took over.
“Okay. By 07:00 tomorrow, I expect this forum to have analyzed the five most likely scenarios,” he looked at Nora, “based on the working premise that this bomb is indeed on its way here, and come up with operational strategies for each scenario.”
He tilted his head towards his deputy, who nodded lightly.
“If you need any sort of assistance, you’ll get it,” the Chief of the General Staff told Nora, who looked at Moshe, nodded as well and left the room along with the Deputy.
The Chief of the General Staff continued. “We’ll now begin the strategic discussion we’ve convened for. There is no reason to discuss our second-strike capabilities. Our second-strike will go off automatically, however their first strike hits us, and so I assume that we confine our discussion to a single primary concern – our first strike capabilities, our preventative strike. On what conditions can we deliver it, where, and how?”
The PM suddenly stood up. “I have to go, thank you all, we’ll be in touch.”
The Chief of the General Staff looked at him leaving with barely concealed loathing. I mostly just felt relieved we were finally rid of him.
“Give my best to… what’s his name?”
“Berger,” said Moshe, opening the door for the PM. He left after him, along with the Chief of the General Staff and the head of the Service, to escort them to the helipad. Benny left right after them.
Dovik took the opportunity to lean closer to me and ask, “So, did that make any sense to you? What he said about a government-owned conglomerate like RET making its own decisions?”
“The Eastern Tea Company also ran the British Empire’s wars for them, with a military of its own,” I said.
“That they did,” said Dovik, pensive. “So who’s been running our wars for us? You know what, don’t answer that.”
“Aw, but I had an answer and everything.”
“Well, who is it then?”
“None other than the Almighty Himself,” I said, pointing upward, “Whom everything abides by. Didn’t you see the PM saying nothing? He’s waiting on Him.”
“The biggest nuclear bomb in the world, God help us. Christ, Do you think they can drop it on the Dimona reactor? If they do… it’ll really come down to Him.”
“As an atheist, I can honestly say I still have more faith in God more than I do in our Prime Minister,” I said.
Nahum walked up to us, patting his belly. “So what do you say?” he asked. “Any more sandwiches back there?”
* * *
31The Directorate of Defense Research & Development in the Ministry of Defense, a joint administrative body of the Israeli Ministry of Defense and the IDF that coordinates between the Ministry of Defense, the IDF, the military industries, and other civilian research agencies.
49.
“You can go in,” said Grisha, pushing the buzzer. “and leave your coffee here, he doesn’t like it when –”
Too exhausted to heed the warning, Vlad went on inside.
“Sit down!” commanded Rasputin.
Vlad sat down and opened his computer.
“What is this? Does this look like a fucking café? Grisha!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Remove this cup from here and send down Khazanovich with two security officers.”
Grisha shot Vlad a miserable look, as if trying to sympathize, and left.
“Go!” Rasputin barked.
“Here on the blue graph are the dates you’ve listed as relevant, plus your destinations. On the red graph you can see Boris Grigorovich’s flight dates. As you’ll see here, sir…”
“I can see for myself. Every flight I took to the shipyard, he had a flight the next day. It corresponds similarly to the events in Syria. The same. Do you know what this means?”
“Not yet.”
“It means that, unless your graph is just an unfortunate coincidence, that Grisha is a traitor and an agent. And we’re about to know whose.”
“Khazanovich is here, sir,” Grisha said on the intercom.
“Let him in.”
Grisha opened the door, and Khazanovich came in, accompanied by two heavyset security officers.
“Take him,” Rasputin said, pointing at Grisha. “To interrogation room 2, no dawdling, level five, urgent!”
Grisha’s mouth fell open and he collapsed silently to the floor. it seems that he lost consciousness.
The security officers collected his limp frame and took him away.
“Wake him up and get the details on…”
“Yefim Vasilyevich,” Vlad quickly said. “And Boris Grigorovich.”
“We already have Vasilyevich,” said Khazanovich, shooting a venomous glance at Vlad.
“He won’t know anything about Grigorovich,” Rasputin said. “If your graph is to be trusted, Kaskov is operated by Yefim Vasilyevich, whose handler is Boris Grigorovich. They’re pros; there wouldn’t be any direct contact between them. What’re you waiting for, Khazanovich?”
“To know a bit more.”
“So are we. We don’t know much – Kaskov gave classified materials to his partner in butt-fucking, the same one you gave security clearance to. Yefim Vasilyevich’s day job was working at an Italian energy company under one Boris Grigorovich. The same company proposed a free government project in Novaya Zemlya, of all places. And right now he happens to be building a project funded by the World Bank in Azerbaijan, on the Khurramshahr border. This screams espionage – either American or Israeli, I’m guessing. That’s it, more or less. Now go fuck him up. I don’t think you’ll be able to get your hands on Grigorovich by this point, but you must get Yefim to talk. Now go!”
Khazanovich nodded, seeming somewhat stunned, and left the room. Rasputin turned to face Vlad again.
“I don’t see the flight to Tel Aviv.”
“It isn’t plotted here because it wasn’t concurrent with any of your events. I’m sorry… oh, wait a moment.” Something lit up in his eyes. “Sir, with your permission, I need a minute.” He began fervently hitting keys. “Maybe it’ll match something on Grisha’s calendar – may I?”
“We’ll see what you may in a moment. Go on, then.”
Vlad typed avidly for another moment, the suddenly cried, “Yes! I have it! He left for Tel Aviv the day after Grisha received approval for Yefim’s clearance. They pretty much moved in together, after that.”
“That makes sense,” said Rasputin. “He went to get his handling instructions. Alright. Go up to Khazanovich, give him everything we’ve got. Boris will be gone by now, but we must get the others. Clear?”
Rasputin looked at his wristwatch. “Be back here in an hour and 45 minutes. I want every detail on their and that energy company’s finances. The money always gives it away.”
“Sir, I…”
“Slava from cyber finance is waiting for you at Khazanovich’s. Go!” said Rasputin, his eyes never leaving the computer screen.
Vlad closed the door behind him and looked at Grisha’s empty desk out in the lobby. The computer had already been taken away and the desk looked naked. No risk, no reward, he thought to himself, and sat down at the desk. The drawers had also been emptied. In the bottom drawer he found a new pack of Marlboros and a golden Zippo. He lit himself a cigarette and looked around him, then hurried to shove both the pack and the lighter into his pocket, and went up to interrogation room 2.