by Nathan Ronen
Arik stayed silent, knowing he had no choice but to play the patience game. In the culture of the Central Asian countries of the former Soviet Union, some things were stated circuitously, and manners dictated listening to an endless exchange of compliments in its entirety. They considered the Israeli ‘no nonsense’ approach as an insult to the essential rules of basic manners.
“How is his honor, the president?” Arik asked. He then waited patiently and heard all about the exploits of President Nursultan Babayev and the wonders of the cultural center named after his father, Heydar, the previous president. It was an immense structure designed by a well-known female architect and had been awarded an international prize for design. He had to listen with endless patience while Georgi described the gleaming white structure, with its attractive rounded lines, which housed a museum focusing on the president’s heritage and hosting rotating exhibitions.
As politeness dictated, Arik also voiced enthusiastic exclamations in the appropriate places.
“But our president will never forget the medical treatment he received in your country more than eight years ago. Treatment that saved his life,” Georgi added.
“I’m glad President Nursultan is feeling well,” Arik said.
“I assume you are also pleased with our financial arrangement, and we thank you for the defense aid.” Georgi was alluding to the fact that the Azeri president was allowing Israel to lease a former Soviet airport in the southern part of the country for use by the Israeli Air Force, as well as establishing a surveillance station for IDF’s Unit 8200 at the northern border of Iran. This had been done in return for the precision-guided munitions the Azeri had received from Israel in response to the security threat posed by their neighbor Armenia, with whom they were involved in a violent skirmish.
“We’re very pleased. Please convey our admiration to President Babayev for his leadership and courage,” Arik concluded, preparing to transition to the matter at hand. But Georgi had not exhausted his Caucasian games just yet.
“As you know, I have plenty of expenses,” Dato grumbled. He was a longtime Mossad agent who was always demanding more funding.
As part of the handler-agent relationship, it was now Arik’s turn to remind Georgi that he had not forgotten the seventy-fifth birthday celebrated by his mother in Tbilisi.
“Yes, thank you. My mother really liked the golden cross in an olive wood box that you sent her, with the engraved silhouette of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. I thank you on her behalf. But I have many expenses. I have to provide her with a caretaker, which is expensive.”
“I certainly understand. I’ll check with our side how we can cover your many expenses,” Arik promised, knowing that only now could he finally get to the heart of the matter.
“Thank you, my friend. I trust you. Now tell me, what can I do for you, dear Arik?”
“I need you to lease me your largest cargo plane from the Azerbaijani Air Force, for a week.”
“How big?”
“Big enough to carry some equipment, as well as some warriors and all their equipment, for a distance of about 7,500 miles without landing, within a short time.”
“Are you planning to conquer Teheran? Actually, considering the distance, maybe you’re planning to come visit us with a commando force?” Georgi asked, cracking himself up.
Arik did not respond, and Georgi understood that the matter was a serious one.
“We have a few Ilyushin Il-76 airlifters. Does that work for you?”
“That seems too small to me,” Bar-Nathan tossed out. “I’ve looked into it with my Air Force people. The Ilyushin can only carry forty tons, and I need something larger. An aircraft that can fly from Baku to North Africa and back nonstop, including loading 250 tons’ worth of cargo.”
Dato whistled in appreciation. “We don’t have anything like that. When do you need it?”
“Yesterday,” Arik replied.
“I think only the Ukrainians have a monster like that,” Dato said. “It’s the Antonov AN-225 Mriya. It’s considered the largest, heaviest aircraft ever built. The original purpose for its construction was transporting the Soviet space shuttle Buran. It’s the only one that’s still serviceable among the three still in active use by Ukrainian international air transport company Antonov Airlines, which is considered to have gone bankrupt. From what I understand, it’s being leased to the highest bidder, with no questions asked, so long as the customer pays in cash.”
“That certainly sounds like it suits my needs. I see you’re well-versed in this,” Arik said appreciatively.
“As far as I know, the last time it was used was by the CIA in order to transport large, heavy equipment to some American Special Forces base where they’re aiding the Kurds on the border of northern Iraq and Syria in their war against ISIS,” Georgi explained. “The German federal security agency also used it to transport GSG 9, the German Federal Police’s elite counterterrorism and special operations brigade, including all of its equipment, in a single flight to Afghanistan.”
This speech was followed by silence. A silence which, in the context of Caucasian negotiation, meant that Georgi expected his interlocutor to specify the full return for his efforts. Arik promised to provide another “generous bonus,” for the aerial crew that would fly the plane as well as a bit of money to cover Georgi’s additional expenses. This was intended to grease all the required wheels and obtain the right to land with no questions asked.
“Arik, remember that these people work only for cash. You have to show up with a suitcase full of money, only dollars or euros, and deposit what they call a ‘seriousness deposit’ of one million dollars in these extorters’ accounts before any assignment is carried out.”
Now it was Arik’s turn to hold his tongue.
“You don’t have to tell me anything. I get it on my own. You want me to make this deal without any fingerprints from your Office,” Georgi whispered into his Chameleon, which enabled them to conduct confidential calls thanks to its method of scrambling and daily encryption.
Arik still maintained his tactical silence.
“Let me get back to you with the details,” Georgi said. “I hope that rust-heap is available and in reasonable condition to fly. If it is, I’ll need a quick response from you in order to deposit a million dollars in their Swiss bank account.
“When does this job in Baku begin?” he added.
Arik hummed noncommittally.
“Can I tell them what the destination of the flight is?” his interlocutor snickered.
“You can tell them you only know that the range of an aircraft like that, when carrying a cargo of 250 ton, is about 9,000 miles, and therefore this assignment meets with requirements and safety regulations,” Arik replied rigidly. “Add that there might also be stops along the way, and that I’m relying on their discretion. I just ask that they don’t send us any drunk pilots, heaven forbid.”
Georgi laughed. “Forget it. Only drunk pilots are willing to fly that monster with wings, because of its state of maintenance. And if they have enough salami, black bread, vodka, and maybe a few young Gypsy girls to amuse themselves with, they don’t ask questions. As far as they’re concerned, the clients can be little green men from Mars.”
Arik ended the conversation and called Air Force Commander Yoav Gad. He updated him that apparently, there was an aircraft for the operation, and told him about the model.
“I object!” Gad declared. “It’s too big of a risk. On paper, that plane is indeed a monster that could carry out this kind of assignment with no problems. But I wouldn’t put our people in a piece of junk like that, with the substandard level of technical reliability characterizing the maintenance there.”
“We only have three days to carry out that sting operation,” Arik explained. “I know it’s not ideal, but you have to remember that the enemy of ‘good’ is ‘very good,’ a
nd in this case, I don’t have a choice. Let’s hope for the best and prepare for the worst.”
“You’re the boss and it’s your responsibility,” the Air Force commander concluded. “But take into account that I’m obligated to express my professional opinion in the meeting over authorizing the plan, which will be conducted by the chief of general staff or the minister of defense.”
“That’s fine,” Arik said, hoping that this time authorizations would be given directly in expedited battle procedure, between the Mossad director and the prime minister and minister of defense. His tension increased in response to the immense responsibility he was taking upon himself, but as he saw it, he had no other choice. The State of Israel had to delay a situation in which, heaven forbid, Iran attained nuclear capabilities.
Chapter 11
Créteil Neighborhood, Paris
From the villa surrounded by vines and jasmine plants on the shore of the large artificial lake in the Créteil neighborhood in southeast Paris, the silhouette of the Grand Mosque looked large and intimidating. Friday was the day in which the mosque filled with thousands of worshippers. They had entirely changed the demographics of a neighborhood once considered to be “the Meknes of Paris,” because it was populated primarily by Jews of North African origin. The house on the Avenue de la Toison d’Or, meaning ‘golden fleece,’ was a modest one compared to the grand estates located on the banks of the large lake. Despite this fact, it projected an aura of power, perhaps due to its modernist design, so distinctly different from the houses surrounding it.
The ringing phone rousted the three brown, massive Bordeaux Mastiffs, which ran toward the phone, barking at it nervously.
The answering machine kicked in. A woman’s voice, in accented French, asked the caller to leave a message. Arik Bar-Nathan’s voice was equally firm. “Maryam, I know you’re there, listening to anyone who leaves a message. This is ‘Raymundo.’ I’m in Paris, and I have to talk to you urgently.”
Maryam’s Mossad codename was ‘Ruth the Moabite,’ after the biblical story. She was the exiled leader of the Iranian Shiite rebel organization Mojahedin-e Khalq. Picking up the phone, she said in a low voice, “Welcome back to Paris, ‘Raymundo.’ Did you come for more than a few hours this time?”
Her French was perfect, but her accent was extremely Iranian.
“We have to meet urgently,” Arik said. “See you at Luigi, the Italian café in the Créteil shopping center, in about an hour?”
“Why a café? Are you afraid of me? Why not come to my place? It’s safest here, and we can talk freely. Or maybe you’re afraid of the dogs?” she asked tauntingly.
“I’m not afraid of dogs. The one that really scares me is actually you,” Arik said.
“I see you’ll never let me forget my one-time slip four years ago?” she tried to camouflage her embarrassment.
“Maryam, you’re a very attractive woman, but I’d prefer to stick solely to a formal work relationship in the long run, and therefore the two of us have to keep our distance from each other.”
“We’re people, not just warriors.” She tried to imbue some lightness into her deep, Farsi-accented voice. “If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh?”
Arik’s thundering silence made it clear to her that he did not appreciate the joke.
“Okay, let’s just drink a shot of cognac, and I promise to be a good girl.”
“I’ll be at your place in about an hour,” he relented, going down to the embassy’s security officer to set up a ride and a bodyguard.
The Peugeot 408 SUV was parked in the Créteil shopping center’s large parking lot. Arik crossed the internal road leading to the residential houses surrounding the lake, taking the path leading to the house on his own. His bodyguard remained a short distance away. He didn’t like being all alone in the presence of hundreds of Muslims returning from their prayers.
Arik recognized the house. He rang the bell on the steel gate adorned with sculpted metalwork. Spotlights illuminated him with blinding beams, and the low hum of cameras swiveled toward him, scanning his figure. The external gate opened with a click. He turned to the path leading toward the house and heard the steel gate shutting behind him with a dim clank. In the opaque glass window, he saw the large silhouette of a man holding what appeared to be a hunting rifle disappear into the house.
Arik faced the front door made of solid wood, looked into the camera that scanned his face, and heard the snorting of the dogs’ heavy breathing as they sniffed his scent from the other side of the door, scratching at it furiously with their claws.
“Are you scared of dogs?” he heard Maryam’s voice through a hidden speaker installed in the door.
“You’ve already asked me that. I’m not scared of them, but I also don’t enjoy it when large dogs climb all over me enthusiastically, drooling all over my pants,” Arik replied, laconic and ill at ease.
She opened the door and he looked back just in time to spot the mysterious figure that had been following him disappear into the thicket of bushes.
Maryam was wearing a tight silk Chinese robe that highlighted her curves. The three dogs exposed their fangs at him with a threatening growl. Maryam blurted out a command in Farsi and they sank to the floor submissively. However, their gazes continued to track his every move as they breathed heavily through their small nostrils.
“I’m really sorry for being early. I see you haven’t had time to get dressed yet,” Arik said cynically, in fact implying that he would prefer it if she dressed more formally.
“Come in, make yourself at home. The bar is in the living room on your right. I’ll be right back.” She responded to the unspoken message, slipping into the interior of the house.
Fifteen minutes later, she returned carefully made up, her hair pulled back, her entire body encased in a gray power suit projecting wholesome formality.
“Maryam, you’re the exiled leader of the organization of rebel warriors outside of Iran, a small, effective, and lethal movement. We have plenty of interface in which our interests converge. But you have to understand that the two of us need to keep our distance and maintain a businesslike relationship,” Arik scolded her.
“I know, and I’m grateful to you and to your organization,” she replied. “Before we met, I was a leader persecuted by the French defense agencies, which wanted to exile me from Paris, while the Americans included me and my organization in the UN’s list of terrorist organizations. And today, thanks to you, I can roam Paris in a car with diplomatic plates, I have a satellite transmission station, and my people have the equipment and training they need. But we’re people, too, with feelings.”
Arik did not seem pleased with this latest statement.
“Don’t be so stuffy. Shall we have a drink? Whiskey, vodka, wine?” she offered seductively.
He shook his head.
“I’ve heard I owe you a double ‘congratulations.’ You received the French Legion of Honor medal from the president of the republic yesterday, and your wife is also due to have a baby girl soon. Right?” she smiled at him.
There was no point denying it or even asking how she knew such personal details. Arik confirmed her words with a nod of his head and a bashful smile. She did not know about the fall and the hospitalization.
“I’ll keep it brief,” he hastily continued in order to overcome his embarrassment. “I need twenty-five of your best warriors to show up in Baku tomorrow, or in two days at the latest, to go see Abu Daoud (the operative codename for Albert Lev-Ari, head of the Mossad bureau in Azerbaijan). He’ll equip them with Revolutionary Guard uniforms and weapons, and they can return home via Baku to Tabriz within three days.”
“Activity in Iran, I presume?”
“Not in Iran. But they’ll be back in Baku within forty-eight hours. I need your best commander to lead them on the ground,” Arik shied away from providing her
operational details.
“No problem. I’ll assign my best warrior to command them.”
“What’s his name?” he asked.
“Mayur (Major) Ali Hassan Larijani,” she replied, her eyes sparking in a way that Arik could not decipher.
“You know him personally and trust him?”
“I know him intimately. In the past, we shared the same vagina.” Maryam gazed directly into his eyes to see if he was shocked.
Arik’s face was unreadable like that of an expert poker player. He now understood the meaning of the spark he had seen in her eyes. Her appetite for mature men and young women was notorious.
“And what about my WIIFM?” she asked with an enigmatic smile.
“You mean Wi-Fi?” he asked, uncomprehending.”
“No, I don’t mean Wi-Fi.”
“I’m sorry, all this internet terminology is Greek to me. I’m from an earlier generation.”
“It has nothing to do with the internet. It’s an acronym for ‘What’s In It For Me?’”
A smile of relief dawned on Arik’s face. “What exactly are you thinking of? Should I replace your car? We bought you a new Mercedes Maybach just a couple of years ago…”
“I want you!” she said, her expression serious, ogling his body with a ferocious gaze.
Arik leapt to his feet. “We’ve already agreed that you’re going to stop harassing me!” he yelled out angrily. “I’m not for sale! You can’t have me! I’m taken! I’m out of bounds! Maryam, what happened between us was a severe, one-time-only mistake. It’s not happening again. Forget it! My man ‘Abu Daoud’ is waiting for your people. If they don’t show up on time, then you’re done here, too. As far as I’m concerned, that would be a blatant violation of our agreement. And I hope the serious consequences are clear to you. You’ll be back to starring on the list of terrorist organizations and any diplomatic status you possess as an exiled Farsi political organization in Paris will be revoked!”