by Uzi Eilam
“Thank you,” Professor Bernard said and then launched back into his presentation. “Based on information we gathered after the fact, we also learned—actually, only quite recently—that the Swedish company was actually a dummy corporation owned by Setad, an Iranian financial body with an annual turnover of tens of billions of dollars. Setad is under the exclusive control of the Supreme Leader and is ostensibly meant to engage in social service work. However, it has come to light that this wealthy fund has other goals, such as assisting in the Iranian procurement effort in contravention of the international embargo on Iran. All this demonstrates the importance of working in coordination with all the countries that might be involved in the procurement effort, and not just those directly involved.
“The first step in this international integration,” Professor Bernard continued, making eye contact with Gideon and Haim, “was to establish a task force consisting of representatives of the countries for which this is an issue of the highest priority. I am pleased that you have joined our effort, Brigadier General Bar-Oz and Dr. Ben-Ari. The task force will meet for its first working session, with all its members, after the Americans join us in the next few days. The mission we are about to embark on is crucial one. For now, however, I hope you will all join us for lunch.”
During the light lunch served by young soldiers of the French gendarmerie, Gideon and Dominique found themselves sitting next to one another.
“It’s such a surprise to see you,” Gideon whispered, his voice overcome by emotion. “I never expected to meet you here, like this, after so many years.”
“I, of course, was not surprised,” said Dominique quietly, with a hint of a smile. “But let’s get together elsewhere. It will give us a chance to catch up.”
“Of course,” Gideon said, almost inaudibly. “Where and when?”
“We can meet at our old café—that is, if you remember it. The day after tomorrow would work in terms of the task force’s schedule. Shall we say ten o’clock?”
“Wonderful. And of course I remember,” Gideon whispered with a smile. Then he turned his head to chat with the director of the Counterintelligence Division, seated to his left. Their conversation, however, was interrupted by Professor Bernard.
“Dr. Ben-Ari, the interior minister has asked me to set up an introductory meeting with the two of you. Could you possibly free yourselves up tomorrow and swing by the minister’s office for lunch? With your permission, the minister will have his car pick you up at twelve thirty.”
“We’ll be waiting.”
Chapter 7
The office of the interior minister was located in a Louis XIV–style palace on Place Beauvau, not far from Élysée Palace. The gendarmerie officer seated next to the driver waved his badge, and the gates swung open as if on their own. It was a tastefully designed grill-iron gate with small gold brush strokes, which added an element of majesty to its black tone. The minister’s office was on the top floor, and reaching it required them to cram into a tiny elevator.
Professor Bernard appeared in the anteroom of the minister’s office as Gideon and Haim were still processing the splendor of the massive paintings on the walls, which depicted scenes from famous battles. “Follow me, gentlemen. The minister will join us momentarily.” Professor Bernard led them down a hall to a medium-sized room with a round table set for lunch for six.
The minister, a short energetic man, entered the room with quick steps. His hair had started to gray, and his pursed lips conveyed resoluteness and tenacity. He sat down in silence and inspected the visitors with a penetrating gaze.
“Monsieur le Ministre,” Professor Bernard began, “we will be in need of your support and assistance in a project that is only now getting underway. I wanted you to meet the two key men whom Israel has sent to Paris to work with the task force. We won’t trouble you unnecessarily, but we will keep you informed as things develop.”
“I understand that you’ve prepared a short briefing on the state of the project, Professor. Why don’t you begin,” said the minister. “And bon appétit to all of you,” he added, prompting the quickly moving waitress from the gendarmerie to place a few plates of appetizers on the table. Gideon and Haim were impressed by the mere sight of goose liver served alongside onion jam and apple slices with calvados sauce. Slices of warm baguettes, fresh out of the oven, were piled high in a wicker basket, and another waiter opened a bottle of red wine from the Bordeaux region. The director-general of the ministry tasted it and gave his approval.
As the meal got underway, Professor Bernard began his briefing. “Our monitoring of the Guardians of the Revolution has yielded distinct signs of a shift in the center of gravity—from Germany to France—of the their three major areas of hostile activity: the illegal procurement of controlled technology, an increased effort to recruit agents from among the Iranian minority and other minorities within the Muslim community—”
“All of this has been on our desk for months now,” the minister interrupted. “What’s changed?”
“We’ve observed a sudden jump in the procurement efforts, specifically, in the effort to procure products and materials that are classified as multiuse,” Professor Bernard explained. “Many of our people have reported that diplomats from the Iranian embassy in Paris have been attempting to persuade them to ‘help the people of Iran,’ which is in dire economic straits.”
“Which French industries are they trying to make inroads with?” the minister asked.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Professor Bernard replied, “it was actually the industries in Germany that cooperated with Iran and violated the terms of the EU embargo. Thanks to Chancellor Merkel, the German government is now making a valiant effort to block these channels. In accordance with the law of connected vessels, which we all remember from physics class, a significant part of the Iranian procurement effort has crossed our borders and is now conducted on our soil.”
“You’re not answering my question,” the minister snapped. “Which French industries are the Guardians courting?”
“I’m getting to that, sir,” Professor Bernard replied patiently. “The hottest item on the Iranians’ shopping list is switches for navigation systems for the Shahab missiles that are currently under development. They are also used by automobile manufacturers and are a critical component on the automated production lines for vehicle assembly. Peugeot and Renault served as go-betweens, linking the dummy corporations set up here by the Guardians and the companies that actually supply the switches. The switches only need to be modified slightly to be incorporated into a missile’s flight command system.”
Gideon decided to play it safe by not mentioning France’s assistance to Iraq in the 1980s, which had resulted in the construction of the Osirak nuclear research reactor. He also steered clear of the reactor’s bombing by the Israeli air force. “The Iranians have made significant strides in their ability to develop long-range missiles since the Iraqi missiles from Dr. Bull’s workshop brought them to their knees and forced Khomeini to stop the war with Saddam Hussein.”
“That’s a good point, Dr. Ben-Ari,” the minister said. “You undoubtedly know better than we do just how critical these switches are for finishing the development of the improved Shahab missiles.”
“With your permission, Monsieur le Ministre,” said Professor Bernard, doing his best to carry on with the briefing, “I would like to say a few words about the third element of the Iranian activity.”
“Yes, Professor,” said the minister. “Please, continue.”
“I’m talking about the terrorist infrastructure the Guardians have established throughout Europe, which gives them the ability to assassinate civilians. They recently started moving the majority of their efforts in this realm into France.”
“That’s news to me!” the director-general exclaimed. “What exactly are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the Iranians’ tr
ansfer of the so-called cultural attaché from their embassy in Berlin to their embassy in Paris.”
“But how is that significant? What does culture have to do with a terrorist infrastructure?” the director-general asked.
“Let’s put it this way. If Ali Reza Sulat, the new Iranian cultural attaché here in Paris, is actually a cultural attaché, then I’m a ballet dancer,” Bernard answered. “In actuality, he’s a senior officer in the Guardians of the Revolution. The problem with Sulat’s transfer to Paris is not only Iran’s attempt to evade the supervision of the German government. Our working assumption needs to be that a dangerous terrorist infrastructure that will enhance their intelligence abilities is being built right here in France, on our watch. And this, of course, is quite troubling.”
“I know the Quds Force well,” said Haim, excited to finally have an opportunity to join the discussion. “They’re the ones who planned the Hezbollah attack in Buenos Aries. The Quds Force produces operatives with no inhibitions. Professor Bernard is right to classify the threat as a serious one.”
Gideon decided not to add anything to Haim’s remarks. All he could think was that, although the meal was winding down, the problem that Professor Bernard had just described to those seated around the table was too bitter to be sweetened by any dessert.
“Gentlemen,” the minister said. “We all have a lot of work to do, and I don’t want to take up any more of your time. Professor Bernard, we must integrate our American friends into the project as soon as possible. It’s an extremely high priority for us, and I have no doubt that their capabilities will make a big difference. I’d like to thank you, Brigadier General Bar-Oz and Dr. Ben-Ari, for joining the effort. Professor Bernard will be working with you on my behalf and will update me on the progress. I wish us all success in this critical and complicated war, to which we each must give our all.”
Chapter 8
Gideon exited the Metro station closest to their agreed-upon meeting place: “their” old spot, Café de Flore, of which both he and Dominique had once been extremely fond. He hesitated momentarily when he emerged from the station, unsure of which way to turn. But he quickly regained his bearings after spying the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés and knew exactly where to go. When he entered the café, he was immediately greeted by a friendly waiter, who led him to a table facing the avenue. The glass walls afforded a view of the passersby, and the heating columns that rose to culminate in a blue flame emanating a warmth that enhanced the pleasant atmosphere.
Gideon relaxed and perused the front page of Le Figaro as he waited for Dominique to arrive. It was the paper he used to read every day when he was a student, in an effort to learn the language as quickly as possible. Today the main headline had to do with the new sanctions the European Union had decided to impose on trade with Iran. France was a leader among the countries calling for the imposition of sanctions to dissuade Iran from continuing its quest to develop a nuclear weapon. Interesting timing, he thought, and undoubtedly not a coincidence.
Dominique spotted Gideon as soon as she entered the café. Gideon stood up, folding the paper and making a mental note to give the article a careful reading later on. He could not help but be struck by the elegance with which Dominique was dressed: a cream-colored skirt, matching high heels, and Prada glasses that hid her eyes: a true Parisienne. Gideon greeted her with a soft hug and a kiss on each cheek.
“It’s so nice to meet you here, Gideon, of all places,” Dominique said with a warm smile.
“How could it be otherwise? After all, as you reminded me the other day, this is ‘our’ place,” said Gideon softly. Without hesitation, he started addressing her using the French pronoun tu, the second-person singular, to indicate closeness. “How many years has it been?”
“Twenty, my dear,” answered Dominique. “We were both students. You had come over from the Technion to work in that electronics and missile firm. It was my second year at the Sorbonne.” A waiter appeared, interrupting the intimacy of the reunion, and Dominique ordered a hot chocolate for herself and a double espresso for Gideon, remembering his usual order from years ago.
“We were so young. Not a care in the world,” Gideon recalled nostalgically, after the waiter disappeared. “You know, I still cherish every moment of that summer.”
“Tell me what you’ve been doing all these years. You almost stayed in France to be with me,” Dominique said wistfully. “But in the end you said that your country was calling…”
“So much has happened. How much time do we have? What do you want to know most of all?”
“I have an hour this morning,” Dominique said. “But you’re staying in Paris. We can see each other outside of work, like we used to. So, what have you been up to since then?”
The waiter appeared and placed a steaming white mug before Dominique and a smaller cup before Gideon before fading back into the movement of the restaurant around them.
“Let’s see…I finished my engineering degree at the Technion and went straight on to get a master’s in systems analysis. After that, I did research in the Israeli defense establishment for a few years.” Gideon thought he discerned a sense of wonder in his old flame.
“I always knew you would go far,” Dominique said. “Even decades ago. You mastered French so quickly and not only settled into work in that technological lion’s den but earned a great deal of recognition in the process. There was a spark in your eyes and a magic in your touch that I’ve never forgotten. Not even after all these years. Please, tell me more,” she urged.
“Well, then I received an offer from Stanford that I couldn’t refuse. It was a generous scholarship from the US government, which allowed me to finish my doctorate in systems analysis.”
“What about family?”
“I had a relationship with a high school sweetheart that ended badly, and I went off to the United States alone. As a foreign student on my own at Stanford, I was adopted by a wonderful couple, Michael and Barbara Goldman. I was like part of the family. They lived in Menlo Park, in the area that today is known as Silicon Valley. Their support and friendship helped me get through the difficult period of my doctoral studies. They had a daughter named Susan, who was a student at a university in San Francisco. She studied political science, just like you. In any case, we started seeing each other, and Suzy’s parents were in favor of our relationship. We got married toward the end of my Ph.D., and we returned to Israel and settled down.” Gideon stopped and took a sip of his espresso. “But what am I going on for? Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to for all these years?”
She sighed. “I’m afraid my story is nowhere near as interesting as yours.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute!” he said with a warm smile. “Tell me.”
“After I finished my undergraduate degree at the Sorbonne, I was accepted for a master’s program in Paris at the ENA, the National School of Administration…”
“Chapeau! And what did you do after you finished your degree there? You must have had your choice of jobs almost anywhere, in any government ministry or public agency.”
“Doucement, Gideon—all in good time,” Dominique said playfully. “You have not changed a bit. You’re still just as I remember. Curious, with an inner drive to move forward. I have not yet told you about Jean-Claude…”
“Your husband?”
“Not really.” She sighed. “Not anymore. I met him at ENA. Jean-Claude was a year ahead of me and was known as a brilliant student. He was tall, handsome, and always dressed elegantly and tastefully. He came from a family with a grand historical legacy and a large castle in central France and, of course, a magnificent house in Paris. All the girls dreamed about him, but he took a liking to me. We became a couple.” Dominique looked into her mug of hot chocolate and took a few sips.
Gideon studied Dominique’s wavy black hair and then gazed into her deep blue eyes, which had captivated h
im from the moment they met. “I’m not surprised that Jean-Claude chose you. He was certainly the lucky one in that relationship.”
Dominique offered a slight smile, placed her mug on the table, and continued. “A year later, when Jean-Claude finished his degree, we were married. We had a small family ceremony that was quite modest. It was what I wanted. Jean-Claude rejected the plethora of job offers he received from different government ministries and instead decided to join the family business.”
“I guess the apple didn’t fall far from the tree?” Gideon said.
“Our daughter Agnès was born during the final year of my degree. We had the money to hire a nanny and a housekeeper, which allowed me to finish my degree. In the end, I took a position in the Economics Department of the prime minister’s office. The years I spent there were extremely interesting. I immersed myself in my work and got a great deal of recognition,” Dominique said, assuming a more businesslike tone.
“And today?” Gideon asked, fighting off the urge to return to the subject of her husband.
“I’m still in the prime minister’s office, which is good for me. Of course, as a woman, I always need to fight to maintain my position, which our homegrown male chauvinists regard as their exclusive property. They prefer to see me as a sex object.”
“Does that include your boss, General de Villiers? I saw the way he looked at you during the meeting of the task force…”
“Yes, Gideon,” she said. “De Villiers is one of the few who haven’t yet given up hope.”
“And what about home?” Gideon asked.
“Agnès is already a big girl. She just finished her matriculation exams, the baccalauréat. She wants to follow in my footsteps and has already been accepted by the Sorbonne. Jean-Claude is completely absorbed in the family business, which has expanded over the years. He travels a lot. I assume he’s seeing someone, but we’ve never spoken about it…”