by Nathan Ronen
Arik felt his knees giving way. The blood drained away from his face and he sat down on the floor once more. He, who had been in mortal danger throughout his adult life, a warrior whose equanimity in battle had served as an example to his subordinates, now felt like an abandoned child. He was utterly helpless, had no control of the situation, while his beloved was a short distance away, in critical condition, and he could do nothing to save her.
Louis-Pierre read him like an open book.
“Arik, don’t worry, she’s in excellent hands.” He immediately added, “They assured me that they’re doing everything possible to save Eva. Once they’re done, they’ll bring her to Georges Pompidou Hospital. Wait there. At the moment, there’s nothing you can do to contribute or help. I’m already on my way to the Hôtel de Crillon to pick up the old lady and the kid. We’re coming down for a light lunch and then we’re driving to the airport.”
A nerve-wracking half hour went by before the SAMU ambulance showed up with Eva inside it. Arik rose from his spot like a coiled spring that had been let loose, immediately walking over to take a look at her. She was unconscious, lying on the gurney. She looked different. Her face was distorted. The end of a tube previously inserted into her trachea was dangling from her mouth. The tube was connected to a manual ventilation tank, operated by a medic. A bag of fluids hung from the end of a metal rod. Her belly was covered with a sheet that was stained with blood.
Arik walked right next to the gurney, which was wheeled by three people. They strode vigorously down the short corridor toward a sign stating, “Intensive Care Unit.”
Arik’s heart contracted within him when he saw how pale Eva was. Her lovely face was bruised and swollen with marks that were blue-red-purple. Traces of blood covered her face and ears, and her hair was loose in a strange hairdo soaked with congealed blood. Her right eye was covered with a large bandage, soaked in blood. Her right arm was in a light cast and was tied to her body. There was no baby to be seen.
Arik understood the tragedy. A heavy weight pressed down upon his tear sac. Uncontrollable tears filled his eyes. The memories of the ultrasound images Eva had sent him, photos of their embryonic daughter, surfaced in his memory. Eva had yearned so much for this girl.
A handsome man with a stethoscope around his neck, wearing a green gown stained with blood, who was pushing the gurney from behind, traded places with the medic operating the ‘Ambu’: the manual ventilator. He looked at Arik while striding energetically.
“You’re the obstetrician who performed emergency surgery on my partner?” Arik asked in French, pushing the gurney as if wanting to take part in the efforts on Eva’s behalf.
“Yes, my name’s Dr. Leon Yagoda,” he said, continuing to operate the manual ventilator. “Let me get her into the unit and I’ll be right back to give you a status report. Please wait for me here outside. Unfortunately, this unit is off limits, even for family members.”
The doctor took off his name badge and passed it through the optical reader. The wide door opened quietly. The gurney bearing Eva and the emergency services team were swallowed inside, and the door to the Intensive Care Unit was slammed in Arik’s face. He was left outside.
Luckily for him, the door had a round porthole and Arik quickly peeked inside. He saw Eva being transferred to a bed. A team of doctors and nurses immediately huddled around her, beginning to connect her to a large number of monitors. Eva was also connected to a ventilator equipped with sedatives. The bag of fluids was changed and several more bags were added to it. Arik was both close and far away. He felt so helpless in his inability to help Eva or do anything at all.
Several minutes later, Dr. Yagoda emerged and walked over to see him.
“A strong blow to the belly caused an abruption of the placenta, and that caused major bleeding, which might bring about the death of the embryo as well as severely endangering the mother’s life,” he explained.
“And the result was a stillbirth?” Arik fished for information.
“There’s nothing still about intrauterine death,” Dr. Yagoda stated conclusively. “It’s a politically correct form of speech that, as a doctor, I’m really not fond of. As far as I’m concerned, this is emergency surgery primarily intended to save the mother. In order to stop the bleeding and allow the uterus to contract, I have to perform emergency surgery in order to remove the baby from the womb.”
“And … the baby …” Arik stammered, heartbroken. “Where’s her body?”
“Body? What body?” Yagoda scolded him. “She was indeed blue and suffering from respiratory distress when I took her out, but she’ll be just fine. She was previously transported in an incubator to the NICU here on the seventh floor, in a special ambulance for newborns that I myself called from the middle of the autoroute. None of the passing drivers had any idea of the drama taking place at that moment on the Boulevard Périphérique.”
The fact that the baby had been saved released some pressure valve in Arik’s heart. He wept loudly in relief, hugging the young doctor, who froze in his place, utterly embarrassed.
“And what about the blow to the head my wife sustained?” he asked after a while.
“After we stabilized the mother’s condition and provided her with medication constricting the blood vessels in the uterus, we took her in for a cranial CT,” Dr. Yagoda explained. “The test is intended to rule out severe life-threatening conditions such as an increase in inter-cranial pressure or inter-cranial bleeding as a result of a tear in, or injury to, the capillary network in the brain. If we suspect such injuries, urgent emergency treatment to save her life would be required. Once such conditions are ruled out, the injured person is usually kept in the ICU for observation for twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”
Arik stayed silent, having a hard time taking in the information.
“Your wife is fine. The CT indicated she was only suffering from a concussion, fractures in her arm and ribs, a fracture in her eye socket and some contusions to her face and body. She’ll be okay. I’m sorry, but I have to get going,” Dr. Yagoda added in a vigorous voice. “My part in this is done. Your wife will probably remain sedated and ventilated for the next two or three days, in order to allow her to bounce back and to rule out inter-cranial hemorrhage. A Cesarean is a very painful operation. Luckily for your wife, I’m currently in my gynecological residency, and I’ve learned the new technique for C-sections developed here in France.”
“Excuse me, doctor, can I go up and see the baby?” Arik asked eagerly.
“Usually, it’s not allowed, but come with me. I’ll introduce you to the head of the unit, Prof. Olivier Gensburger.”
The two men took the elevator up to the seventh floor, where the NICU was located.
Arik’s heart skipped a beat when he saw the tiny baby girl through the transparent pane. He had already privately resolved that one of her names would be Ethel, after his late mother. She was lying in an incubator, with tubes all over her body. But otherwise, she was perfect, her skin color pinkish, like every healthy baby.
“She weighs six pounds, four and a half ounces, which is a good weight, and she’s out of danger,” he was told by Prof. Gensburger, who approached them with a cheery expression.
Arik, deeply moved, could not speak. Dr. Yagoda’s pager buzzed again and again. He glanced at it and hurried off to make his way to his next emergency intervention, to which he had already been summoned.
They went back down to the Intensive Care Unit together. Prof. Gensburger disappeared inside the ICU while Arik was left to wait outside.
From beyond the corner of the corridor leading to the unit, Arik heard a commotion. He raised his head and noticed an impressive figure striding confidently toward him. It was Admiral Lacoste. He was still clad in his official uniform from the ceremony held that morning. Lacoste looked elegant in his white full-dress uniform. An abundance of colorful medals adorned his chest, and a gold
en wreath of laurels was embroidered on the brim of his cap. Even without the uniform, the admiral was a tall, tanned, impressive man. Due to his mild, restrained manner of speaking, he reminded many people of mythological American movie star Gary Cooper.
He made his way to Arik, accompanied by Prof. Meyer Abensour, manager of the Georges Pompidou Medical Center, whom he introduced to Arik.
“What’s going on, Bar-Nathan?” his baritone voice roared out. Arik’s hands rose up in an apologetic gesture of sorts, as if everything was his fault. He was speechless.
“As you can see, I’ve been busy, and haven’t had time to get rid of these clothes yet,” Lacoste explained.
Arik looked at him in surprise. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“You missed an excellent meal, and the president asked about you and Eva,” Lacoste mentioned casually.
“Eva’s in the ICU now, sedated and on a ventilator. She just got back from a CT head scan to rule out a brain hemorrhage. At the moment, it looks like everything’s okay, and the baby’s here in the NICU, and is apparently out of danger,” Arik gratefully reported.
Prof. Olivier Gensburger emerged from the ICU. The team of nurses and doctors followed him out, standing curiously beside the solemn hospital manager.
“And all that is thanks to these excellent people,” Arik pointed at the medical staff.
Lacoste gazed at hospital manager Abensour, Prof. Gensburger and the entire medical team with an authoritative expression. He pointed at Arik and addressed the entire assembly in a commanding voice: “This is Arik Bar-Nathan, a senior member of Israel’s security apparatus. He’s a personal guest of the president of the French Republic, and as of this morning, the recipient of a French Legion of Honor Commander-class decoration. Treat his family right and spare no expense. Send the hospital bills to me.”
The team of doctors and nurses looked at Arik with respect and awe. A minute later, Eva would be transferred to a VIP room at the ICU.
Lacoste turned to Arik and said, “In my opinion, for now, you’ve got nothing to do here. They don’t really need you. Eva and the baby are in good hands, right?” he gestured at Prof. Gensburger and his team.
Arik nodded.
“And now is exactly the right time to drive over and wrap up a different important matter.” He hugged Arik’s shoulder firmly and pulled him out after him.
In the limousine speeding to its unknown destination, Lacoste said, “This morning, the State of Israel deserves more congratulations. I heard Ben-Ami Cornfield has been reinstated as director of the Mossad.”
Arik thought it was quite odd that he was hearing of this for the first time from the head of Pyramid, of all people.
“And we’re also due for congratulations. We had a little girl, born via emergency surgery, but she’s out of danger,” he mumbled, feeling mixed emotions.
Lacoste did not hear his final words. He had already nodded off due to the rich meal and a bottle of his favorite wine, Chateau Malbec de Bordeaux.
Chapter 7
The Military “Convalescent Home” in Paris
The admiral’s limousine made its way through Paris’s endless heavy traffic, crossing the city toward the neighborhood of East Montparnasse in the 14th Arrondissement.
“I’m guessing you’re taking me to visit Eddy Constantine?” Arik said.
The smile spreading across Lacoste’s sleepy face indicated he was awake.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me exactly how you managed to collect all that intel about the head of the French intelligence service’s Special Operations Division,” he tossed out, hoping to dig up some information. A note of professional affront was inherent in his words, since a foreign intelligence agency had provided him with proof of the treachery of his deputy, the most senior member of his team.
“Obviously, I can’t disclose my sources,” Arik agreed. “But I can tell you I started suspecting Eddy Constantine the moment he began excluding me from all the information involved in the mission to save the Moroccan king. We at the Mossad had some vague leads about inappropriate connections between the DGSE and Chad’s minister of defense, Field Marshal Idris Ma’alum, whom we’ve been tracking for quite a while.”
Arik didn’t reveal the fact that he had personally utilized the Armenian mafia network in Paris in order to track Eddy Constantine so that there would be no Israeli fingerprints linked to the operation. Allied countries did not spy on one another, supposedly.
“I’m wondering, in general, what’s your interest in a godforsaken site like Chad?” the admiral asked.
“Uranium,” Arik said casually. “Chad is one of the world’s major exporters of uranium.”
“But if I’m not mistaken, you get what you need for the Dimona reactor and your nuclear program from other sources, right?”
“We’re not dealing with our own nuclear program, which, by the way, your country was the first to help us establish. At the time, it was very confidentially nicknamed ‘The Dimona Textile Factory.’ I’m concerned with material the Iranians are trying to smuggle in for their nuclear program. One whose existence they deny, lying to the entire world by saying they have no intention of developing nuclear weapons.”
Lacoste wanted to mention that the State of Israel, too, had never signed the international Treaty on the Prohibition of Nuclear Weapons, and had also misled the world regarding that topic, but kept his silence.
The limo approached a high wall in the middle of the Montparnasse Quarter, which was full of tall buildings. The quarter’s broad boulevards concealed the military prison, which was notorious for housing special prisoners, such as Ahmed Ben Bella, a forefather of the Algerian nation who had become its first president, as well as other dangerous criminals. The prison was located on Rue de la Santé, or ‘Health Street.’ Therefore, French singer-songwriter and poet Georges Brassens had jokingly referred to it as Paris’s “military convalescence home.” It had even been featured in two of Brassens’ songs.
The prison warden came down to see them. When he spotted the admiral, still in his dress uniform, he straightened and stood at attention, clicking his heels and saluting in a manner that made Lacoste suppress a smile. The head warden greatly resembled the late French actor Louis de Funès, many of whose films mocked the French police.
Accompanied by a small entourage of his officers, the warden led them to a small cell that served as a meeting place for lawyers and their clients. The investigating judge joined them.
A short time later, Eddy Constantine was brought into the cell, his hands and feet shackled, laboriously lumbering along, dressed in a glaring orange prison uniform.
Arik was appalled. The man before him was not the same French brigadier, cocky and full of self-confidence, who just a few months earlier, had furiously kicked Arik out of his office. He was a pallid reflection of a wreck, a man withered into emaciation. His eyes were extinguished, his gaze downcast in despair and resignation. He looked like a man who knew what awaited him shortly.
“Could you uncuff him, please?” Arik asked the guard politely. The guard looked toward the judge, who confirmed the request.
“Coffee?” Arik asked.
Eddy looked at him in amazement. He recognized Arik, having asked to see him. But he did not understand why it was he, out of everyone present, who was giving the orders. He also had no idea, even in his wildest speculations, that it was actually the Israeli agent he loathed who had brought about his capture and the end of his exploits.
“Espresso?” Arik asked. Eddy nodded, smirking, not believing he would actually receive it.
“Could you please fetch some coffee for all of us from Paul Café, here on the boulevard, along with a bag of fresh almond croissants?” Arik asked the guard, handing him a twenty-euro bill. The guard directed a look of disbelief at the warden, who, in turn, looked to the judge. The judge confirmed the request
with a nod. Arik went on to ask for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the prison canteen. The guard looked once more to the judge, who nodded in assent yet again.
“Eddy,” Arik began to wear down his target’s resistance in a quiet voice. “I’m sure you remember our argument. I just wanted you to know I’m not angry at you. On the contrary, I salute you. I know you are a wholehearted French patriot. You were in the paratrooper force that defended Điện Biên Phủ in Vietnam and were wounded. You fought in countless Foreign Legion operations in Africa as a battalion commander and headed numerous clandestine missions throughout the French empire.”
Eddy Constantine gazed at him wearily.
The guard returned a short time later, bearing four disposable cups with plastic lids. It was fragrant La Vaca coffee, and the bag was overflowing with fresh, melt-in-your-mouth croissants. The aroma of the coffee and the croissants did the trick. Eddy could not resist the temptation and leapt at them.
Arik waited patiently, gallantly offering his croissant to Eddy, who snatched it from his hand lustfully.
Arik took the pack of smelly Gauloises cigarettes from the tray. He handed a cigarette to Eddy, took one for himself, and used the lighter to light both. He had never smoked and was doing it solely for Constantine’s sake. Eddy clearly appreciated the gesture. He inhaled the smoke with obvious pleasure. In contrast, Arik, who had suffered from asthma in his youth, choked on the smoke and coughed. But it was a small price to pay for the closeness he had established with his former enemy.
The young investigative judge was about to comment that smoking in public places was prohibited, much less doing so in a maximum-security prison like this one. But Lacoste’s hand landed upon his shoulder, indicating that he should stay quiet.