Esther was an unassuming person. Her husband Avram and her two children were her entire world. She kept to herself, and the course of her life never went beyond her household. Her family was all she ever cared about. She did have the most amazing blue eyes but being complimented about that only made her self-consciousness. ‘If it were up to Mom, she would have changed the color of her eyes. Maybe she would have preferred brown,’ Michal had thought to herself.
The very thought that her mother, Esther Fiddlemann, could have had an extramarital affair gave Michal pause. Her entire life flashed before her eyes. ‘It’s true that Dad adored Bonnie. No wonder. He lived up to all his dreams. But all that was on the level. Very rational and conscious. Whatever emotions Dad had, they never ran very deep. Besides, he loved us equally. I never felt he loved either of us less or more. But what about Mom?’
Michal’s mind was racing with all sorts of scenarios and flashing red question marks. One event from the distant past came to mind. ‘Bonnie and I went for an evening walk in the village and got lost. How old was he? Maybe eight. I think I was four. Before we knew it, night had descended upon us. A few anxious hours went by before we heard Mom and Dad looking for us with our neighbors. When we saw them from afar, we ran, arms stretched, crying... I’ll never forget the look on Mom’s face... how she ran and shouted joyfully. First, she turned towards Bonnie and gave him a great big hug. I felt cast aside, abandoned and dismayed. But then, Dad picked me up and hugged me. Mom’s admiration for Bonnie was endless. But I feel the same way towards him, so why does this bother me so much?’ But then, Michal realized there was something else. She felt it all these years but couldn’t put her finger on it. There was a kind of bond between mom and Bonnie. It went beyond kinship. A sort of fate that had brought them close, intimate. Some great secret. ‘Now I realize it was one-sided. Mom kept it to herself all these years.’
Michal began to feel sorry for her mother but also admire her at the same time. ‘How could she bear such a burden all by herself all these years? She didn’t share it with anyone. That much is clear. She certainly didn’t tell Dad. He wouldn’t have been able to take it. Was Mom being honest about it? Was she truthful? Was it fair of Mom to leave an envelope only for Bonnie? I wonder what really happened. What’s the story with Mom and that guy? What a story! Well, at least Mom got to have a torrid affair... some fling that could have shattered her quiet little life. But didn’t she ever share her secret with me? Would I have borne it? Where would my loyalty have stood? Had I known would I have told dad?’
“So, Bonnie, what now?” Michal awoke from her thoughts and broke the hiatus of silence.
“I now realize why she showed me that triangle in my left eye.”
‘Is he going mad on me again?’ “What triangle?” She asked him finally.
“The one in my eye,” came his reply, in broken voice.
“What are you on about? What triangle? What eye?”
“It’s a memory I’ve had for years. Once, when I was a child, Mom called me and showed me that I had a small triangular mark in my pupil, as did she. Only hers was in her right eye and mine was in my left eye. I never took it seriously as a child, but now, I am beginning to understand what she meant by it. She tried to get this message across, some idea I should bear in mind my entire life.”
“What message?”
“That come what may, I should always bear in mind she’s my Mom.”
Bonnie and Michal went silent. Their strong kinship was nevertheless bothered by all sorts of questions and perplexing thoughts that hung in midair.
“So, does that make you my stepbrother?” Michal tried to break the silence with a smile.
“Never mind that, you and I are fine. But to think I had a stepdad all these years, and that Mom hid the truth from all of us. She and her triangle. Could it be that Avram was none the wiser?”
“Don’t call him Avram. He’s your dad!”
“He is not!”
Saying this was like a ton of bricks falling on top of him. ‘If he isn’t my dad, then who is? What do I do next?’
“What do we do next?” He heard Michal asking him.
All of the sudden, Bonnie felt energized. He rose up, threw his blanket aside, poured himself some scotch and heard himself telling Michal the following: “I am going to look for my father.”
Chapter Sixteen
The government’s regular Sunday meeting stretched longer.
“I would like ten minutes of your time, please,” Bonnie asked the prime minister at the end of the meeting.
“That’s about all I can spare,” the prime minister replied. “I’ve got a very busy schedule.” He directed Bonnie into his office, which was next to the government’s meeting room.
“What’s this about? Oh, but first, please allow me to offer my condolences on the death of your mother. I couldn’t make it to the funeral. You know, pressing state business.”
“Thank you, prime minister. The issue I would like to put to you does have something to do with my mother’s passing. In the week that followed her funeral, I discovered something that shook me to the core. I stumbled on the fact that the person whom I thought of as my dad my entire life was, in fact, not my biological father.”
“That’s truly amazing,” the prime minister peered above his stack of paperwork. This was the first time he looked at Bonnie since they had sat down. “Other than offer you my sympathy, what more can I do to help you?”
“That’s the thing. When I joined the special cabinet for diplomatic and security affairs, I filled out all sorts of forms for my security clearance. I put my father’s name, but since then, as I’ve told you, it has turned out he wasn’t my actual father, so I thought it best to inform you of this.”
“This is a truly curious turn of events. In my ten-year tenure as prime minister, I have yet to come across any similar situation. Let me look into it.”
And thus, their meeting adjourned.
***
Israel’s security service consists of several sections: The Operational Branch, the Arab Branch, the Counterintelligence Branch and the Administrative Branch, which consists, inter alia, of personnel and logistics. The ‘service’ is tasked with conducting security clearance and assessments concerning top classified positions in the civil service, defense industries and other bodies whose very function necessitates a security clearance.
This inquiry probed quite deeply and was also extensive, including background checks on the candidate’s family. A large part of the probe relied on the details the candidates themselves filled out in the questionnaire forms prior to their security checkup.
***
Once a week, Israel’s prime minister has regular separate meetings with the IDF chief of staff, the head of Mossad and the head of Israel’s General Security Service GSS). These meetings consist of reports and updates provided by these figures and feature discussions of various topics under their respective purviews and responsibilities within the framework of Israel’s security array.
At the end of his regular weekly meeting with the head of GSS, the prime minister addressed the following issue. “There’s another matter I would like to discuss with you. Minister Binyamin Pladot asked to speak with me. He told me that a certain detail he filled in upon his appointment as minister turns out to have been incorrect. He never meant to deceive anyone, it’s just that his circumstances have made a surprising turn.”
“Prime minister, would you care to explain regarding what this is?”
“Certainly. It has emerged that the details the minister gave on his security questionnaire about his father were incorrect. He has since discovered he has a different father, who is in fact his biological father. The question I would like to put to you is as follows, does this new fact have any security implications? To make matters all the more complicated, the minister does not know who his biological father is.”
“Yes, we do have a problem, and a serious one at that,” the GSS chief replied, as befitting the practical and thorough man that he was. “We know, based on many years’ worth of experience, that the personal background of any person’s parents plays a major role, it makes an essential impact on the child. We’re talking here not merely about a minister who is part of your security cabinet, but who is also a member of your select subcommittee on intelligence and terror within the security cabinet. Even when you appointed him to the subcommittee, I told you I wasn’t too thrilled to have a minister of science added to the cabinet. It isn’t enough to have a former career as an officer. It isn’t even enough to be a veterinarian to merit being made a member of our most sensitive committees.
“We’ve already discussed this,” replied the prime minister. “Luckily for you, you only have to deal with matters of security, whereas I have to deal with political matters on top of that. His appointment to the cabinet and to the subcommittee is the outcome of a coalition agreement without which I would not have succeeded in forming a government, and then I would not have been your prime minister. Question is, what should we do about it now?”
“I need three months to look into it.”
The prime minister was a busy man. He would always peruse the dozens of documents in front of him during meetings and divide his time between them and the person he was speaking with. Whenever he would raise his head to look at his interlocutor, that was a clear indication of the importance of the issue they were discussing. The prime minister looked up from his paperwork. “What do I do in the meantime?”
“I must ask that you do not include him in the meetings, at least do not invite him to the subcommittee’s meetings.”
“You are wreaking havoc on my government. How can I refuse him?”
“You’re the politician. If I were you, I simply would not issue the invitations to the meetings. He doesn’t need to be aware of each and every meeting that’s taking place.”
“Sometimes it takes more luck than brains,” the prime minister replied. “Minister Pladot has asked me for a leave of absence for three months, which I granted. So, you have the time you have asked for. I await your account.”
Chapter Seventeen
Professor Shimoni entered his office, gave Tzila, his faithful secretary, the box of chocolates he remembered to get her at the duty free in Rio, gave her a fleeting kiss on the cheek, asked her casually how she was doing and inquired after her family. Then, he proceeded to his office and took his seat at his executive armchair.
“So how was Rio?” Tzila asked him.
“Excellent,” he replied. “They succeeded in surprising me. They gave me an award for my contribution to the field.”
Prof. Shimoni was one of the world’s top geneticists. Apart from chairing the Genetics Department at Tel Aviv University, in addition to his highly prestigious position at Refu’ah Shlema, Tel Aviv’s leading hospital, he was also a much sought-after lecturer, whose talks attracted crowds worldwide. His lecture at the University of Rio de Janeiro, entitled, ‘The struggle between hereditary and the environment,’ sold out within three days of publication. The professor had kindly turned down the university’s request that he add two more lectures.
His paperwork was piled up on his desk on top of numerous emails. Tzila knew that on his flights, the professor always flew business; he would rather read a good book or listen to a soothing concert rather than go over dull emails. “That’s my ‘time alone,’, the only quality momentary lapse I have by myself, and I will not have it spoiled with work,” he’d always tell her.
Whenever a highly urgent case would come up while he was abroad, and there were precious few of those, Tzila did allow herself to text him, knowing full well the sort of grimace on the other side of the line as, abhorring the intervention, he checked them.
Right at the top of the emails that had accumulated during his six-day absence, the professor noticed this message, highlighted in red: “the head of Israel’s GSS requests an urgent meeting.”
“What could I have possibly done?” Prof. Shimoni asked his secretary over the private line.
“I have no idea what they’ve got you for, but about the meeting, I told them that wasn’t possible, since you’re due in Oxford in two days’ time. Nevertheless, they told me the matter was paramount and urgent and that the meeting could not be delayed. When I asked them what this was about, they said they would rather speak with you privately.”
“So, what do I do, Tzila?” He knew he could always count on her good advice.
“Security always comes first. I arranged with the GSS’s office that they come pick you up for the meeting scheduled for tomorrow at eight pm They wouldn’t even tell me where it’s at.”
“What do I tell Rina? She’ll murder me. I promised her we’d go to dinner tomorrow.”
“Leave your wife to me. I know how to soften her up.”
The next day, a limousine with dark windows was waiting for Prof. Shimoni outside the hospital at eight that evening. He produced his ID, and they let him in the back seat. He managed to catch a glimpse of the bridge as they were heading north, and surmised they had crossed the Yarkon River, just north of central Tel Aviv. Shortly thereafter, they reached a large stone edifice whose steel gates opened in the front to let them in. The car entered an underground parking and stopped right at the entrance to the elevator. The driver asked the professor to accompany him, and, after he had punched in a secret code, the driver pushed the button that sent it up. As they left it, Prof. Shimoni saw a spacious lobby featuring leather armchairs. He did spot artwork by modern Israeli painters. ‘Whoever had them hang here sure knows about art,’ he told himself.
As much as he tried to play aloof, he was nevertheless excited about meeting the chief of what was considered to be the world’s best intelligence organization.
“The head of the service is expecting you.” The secretary led him into a spacious, modestly, albeit tastefully, decorated office, with paintings and other works of art by Israeli artists on the walls and at corners of the room.
The GSS chief relished the professor’s keen interest in his collection of Israeli art. “Hello, professor.”
He was of average height, and his hair was thick and black. ‘He has brown eyes,’ Prof. Shimoni noted to himself. He also noticed when the chief rose from his chair to greet him that he wore black pants and a white shirt. When they shook hands, the professor was impressed by the sense of power and authority the chief instilled.
“I noticed you’re an art connoisseur, so let me tell you a nice story. What’s the difference between those who know art and those who are just full of airs?” The professor asked.
The GSS chief had no answer.
“The boors keep mentioning Tchaikovsky, but they have yet to see a single painting of his...”
The head of the GSS burst out laughing wholeheartedly, unveiling two rows of pearly white teeth.
‘Now I know he didn’t invite me over because I had met some Iranian guy,’ the professor smiled to himself.
“It’s time I introduced myself. My name is Yossi. I know you’re a busy man. You have a six am flight to London to catch, but a question of national importance has come up, and I require your opinion.”
“I would do anything for our country’s security,” sighed the professor. “How can I help you guys?”
“We require your expert opinion: what shapes someone’s personality more, their environment or their genetics?”
Prof. Shimoni was about to faint, and surely would have, had he not pulled himself together quickly and helped himself to a glass of water right in front of him. ‘The head of GSS, one of the world’s most powerful organizations, is asking me about genetics?’ The professor was expecting to be asked about the chance encounter he had had with a member of the Iranian delegation to the Lisbon convention. He also expected he m
ight have to answer a few questions about the project he had in the works with a team of scientists from Egypt. ‘Could it be that Israel is doing so well security-wise that its defense chiefs have the luxury to pursue genetic and academic studies?’
The head of Israel’s GSS noticed his guest’s uneasiness, “Don’t worry, I am not about to embark on genetic research. We are, however, faced with a grave matter of security and we are in dire need of answers. I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t. Surely you understand. Nevertheless, your assistance may prove vital, so let’s proceed.”
Prof. Shimoni cleared his throat. He felt the nation’s security was resting on his shoulders. “Well, it’s not a simple question. It’s quite complex. The answer is open-ended. The current prevailing assumption is that genetics and environment alike have a similar impact on the way people conduct themselves. Nevertheless, this opinion is in dispute. A few years ago, a team of psychologists from the University of Minnesota published a study that gained a great deal of attention worldwide. They compared pairs of identical twins who grew up in two separate families with pairs of regular twins who grew up together in the same family. The results of the study showed that the identical twins had similar personality traits compared with the pairs of twins who had grown up together in the same family. The conclusion they’d reached was that the impact of genetics is greater than that of the environment. This study was met with a great deal of criticism. One of the claims was that it was based on curious statistic data and could not be regarded as an established study with any statistical significance.”
“And what is your own opinion?”
“I am more inclined to think there is some correlation between environmental and genetic impact on one’s personality. That’s what I tell my students.”
“Let’s move, for a moment, from the academic level to practical reality,” the chief of GSS said. “What personality traits that originate in genetics can you attribute to someone?”
Deadly Ties Page 11